UK LIFE IN THE GOLDEN ERA
Life in the UK in the 1960s & 70s
IN OUR ERA, WHICH WAS WITHOUT THE TECHNO PASTIMES OF TODAY, AS KIDS WE SPENT MOST OF OUR PLAY TIME OUTDOORS. WE MADE OUR OWN FUN – AND BETTER FUN TOO..! :)

Here’s another example of our Do-It-Yourself pastimes as kids: the self-made cart, or as we called it in Glasgow – the ‘bogey’; to others around the U.K (who had the same pastime – elsewhere in the world too, I’m sure) I think these were called (variously) buggies; carties; carts; etc… what’s in a name? – It was all the same thing - DIY fun and games..! I found this picture on an internet page about Glasgow; I’d reckon it to be from around the mid-1960s.

This (like the assembling of discarded wooden stuff for our bonfires, I guess) was our version of recycling, in a way.

We’d scour the neighbourhood for old discarded prams – they provided the wheels; then planks of wood for the chassis; a solid wooden box structure of the right size was a prize find to make the body or seating area – if not, then pieces of wood nailed together would do; some hardy souls did without an enclosed seated area and just nailed a piece of wood to the chassis to sit on.

At the back we’d nail a strong piece of wood to support the axle and rear wheels. Up front was trickier: the wooden plank support for the front wheels and axle could not be nailed rigidly in place – some kind of bolt-on mechanism was required, as the wheels and axle had to be supported on a swivel mechanism, so as to be steerable; drilling was required, and the procuring of a hefty nut and bolt. Once done, a rope was attached to either side of this swivel arrangement (usually tied to the axle) – and this was the steering mechanism: pull left or right to turn…

All this needed the borrowing of somebody’s Old Man’s tool kit – or at least saws, hammer, nails and a drill (almost certainly a manual drill – not electric). Dads were happy to lend this stuff, and were often keen to help out – as much as we’d LET them help, that is! – because for them it was revisiting their own childhood…

My group of pals when I was at school had one very well built ‘bogey’ to share (it had the solid body, a good strong chassis and very easy steering action!), built, I’ll admit, with the help of one of our dads. It was the envy of the other, rival, groups of kids with ‘bogies’.

And rivalry there was: races and daring stunts! Our mean-machine, being more sturdy, lacked something in speed, and we’d lose races to a rival with the less robust (but cheap and nasty looking!) ‘no-box’ seating arrangement; but we’d always thrash ‘em in the daring ‘down the steepest dirt hill’ challenge, because of three advantages: our robust build; our superior steering and – ME..!

Some kids wouldn’t even dare to take these challenges – they were blooming scary – and dangerous too! – Many a casualty from these… If I can brag a little though: I was considered the real daredevil driver in our neighbourhood – and was always elected to take the challenge for our side – and always won: got to the bottom first, without toppling over or running headlong into whatever was at the bottom (in some cases a wall) – by steering last minute way from it. My fearlessness and skill was held in a certain amount of awe by my rivals – though, being Glasgow boys, they did not express that in complimentary ways, but rather with such as: ‘I’m not going up against HIM! – He’s off his FREAKIN’ HEAD..!’ (‘Freakin’’ was possibly not the word they used… 😳 LOL!) This was their way of saying: ‘By Jove! The fellow has courage beyond all fear and good sense..!’ Or something like that… 🤣 LOL!

Great, great times; great fun – and all outdoors, all of it our own skills and imagination – and all for free…

Siiigh… I genuinely feel sorry for kids today - they have been force-fed ways to enjoy themselves – at the expense of their own magic, wonder, skills, inventiveness and imagination… And I don’t think this is just me being an old fuddy-duddy either…

(I found this photo online. My acknowledgement and thanks to whoever made it. :)).

(M).

Textual content:
©Copyright MLM Arts 07. 12. 2013 Edited and reposted: 26. 11. 14. & 23. 09. 2015. Edited and re-posted: 26. 07. 2018. Edited and re-posted: 28. 06. 2019

MEMORIES OF A 1960s U.K CHILDHOOD:

BERNIE, THE BRUTAL BARBER OF OLD GLASGOW TOWN – AND HIS INFLUENCE ON MY ROAD TO
HIPPIEDOM…

See this van..? – It’s a mobile barber’s shop, very much like the one run by a crabby, bald headed, red-necked, gravel-voiced, skinny, shrivelled little-old sadist called Bernie, who plied his trade in his mobile coiffuring chamber of pain around the back streets of Glasgow in the 1960s – terrorising timid wee guys like me… My head was ‘Bernied’ many a time as a young kid: It was like a kind of medieval torture…

Bernie parked-up near the primary (elementary) school that me and my older bruv attended. My Old Man made us ‘go tae Bernie’s efter school..!’ about once a month. We dreaded it. He’d press Two Bob (two shillings) each into our hands and give finger-wagging instructions each time:

‘Ask for short-back-an’-sides’... Alright?! What is it?’ Then we’d to repeat it back:

‘Short-back-an’-sides…’

Short-back-and-sides had been the standard haircut for boys (and men) in the U.K for generations before us: clippers were used to shave hair almost to the skin on the back of the head and around the ears; hair was kept on top, which was combed forward, thinned a bit with scissors and cut in a fringe at the forehead.

On the day of our visits to this conveyor of haircutting cruelty, we made our foot-dragging way from school to the street where the waggon of woe was parked. My bruv, being older, would take the lead, and knock on the door of Ol’ Bernie’s Brutal Barbering Boutique (not the real name, obviously, but it works for me…); Bernie would grunt ‘Come in..!’ - and the horror began...

The following is one experience of many at Bernie's, but it captures the mood of them all...

BERNIE'S BRUTAL BARBERING: A VICTIM'S STORY...

We entered timidly, heads bowed before the gnarled, stooped, leathery-skinned old gargoyle. The air stank of stale tobacco smoke and the sickly-sweet chemicals and lotions used in his trade. His weak, washed-out grey eyes glared at us as a non-verbal warning against so much as uttering a word to him… But utter we must – as ordered to:

‘Short back an…’ we chorused, but were interrupted by the irate Bernie:

‘Sides..! Sides..! I know! Ya pair o’ wee nyaffs [a familiar Glasgow expression of disdain…]. ‘Whit did I think ye were gonna ask for? – A ‘Tony Curtis’..?’ ’ [A short grunting, gargling laugh ensued].

Clearly, to Bernie a ‘Tony Curtis’ was still the haircut to have for the trendy man-about-town. The 1950s was still alive and well to Bernie – and being resented by him. I imagine that for some 10 years between the early 50s up to the arrival of The Beatles, he’d often refused requests for a ’Tony Curtis’ – and backed his refusal with a snarled remark about the effeminacy of such ostentation…

‘Anyhoo – I know yer faither, he comes here regular. He tells me ta’ make sure there’s none o’ this ‘Tony Curtis’ stuff fra’ you two.’

[The Old Man and Bernie were kindred spirits in many ways. Although Bernie was around 30 years older than my Old Man, they were both from generations that complied with social continuity and Establishment 'norms', and were in denial about change, and only registered change some 10 years retrospectively. The 1960s was going on around them, but to them it was like some bad dream, or something that was happening to other people but not to them. They were only just getting used to the 1950s – and hating it…]

‘Now SIT..!’ The demon barber commanded.

One after the other we took our place in Bernie’s chair of horrors; raised up by a bolster cushion. My big bruv always agreed to let me go first, while he sat and waited in the hard chair provided.

Bernie’s steel-rod fingered vice-like left claw clamped down on my head; he took up his manual (not electric!) clippers in his right… Then - SHOVE! My head is thrust forward roughly - so hard that my chin is on my chest, and is held rigidly in this position. My wind-pipe feels crushed and restricted, but I breathe through my nose - and endure. Clippety, clippety, clip…

Then - WRENCH..! He yanks my head back upright and twists it violently to the left, to face an advert for a shaving soap-stick, framed on the nicotine stained wall… Clippety-clip…

SHOVE! Head still pointing east, but now shoved down for a sideways view of this soapy necessity of the male rite-of-passage: the shaving ritual… Clippety-clip…

WRENCH! – twist – WRENCH! Head yanked violently upright, twisted forward, then brutally cranked to face right: the western side of the beautiful interior of ‘Chateau Bernie’. It was, of course, the same nicotine brownish-yellow as the eastern visage, but this time with a black and white poster of a bikini clad Betty Grable stuck to the wall with sticky tape. In my peripheral vision I could also make out ads for razor blades, Old Spice aftershave, and one for a brand of mini-cigars…

Betty bestowed a monochrome smile of mumsy-like caring sympathy upon me, and it soothed away my need to cry out from the spasms of pain that this ham-fisted barber and unintentional chiropractor was inflicting on my head, neck and shoulders…

Clippety-clip-clip-clip… SHOVE! Head thrust down on a sideways angle again – still facing west… Clippety-clip… WRENCH! Twist… Head yanked up – twisted to face frontwards again… Then came the comb and scissors… (God, if yer listening… I don’t ask for much, but…)

Bernie had to use both hands to wield his weapons of barbarous barberry now, but first he took my chin in a clamp-like grip in one hand, stooped to glare fiercely into my deer-caught-in-the-headlights gaping eyes, brandished his gleaming, pointed scissors in his other hand and held them close to my face and growled: ‘Now sit perfectly still, ya wee nyaff..! These are SHARP! [Dramatic pause] RAZOR SHARP! One twitch – one word to distract me - and they could take yer eye oot..! A’right?!!’

I daren’t nod nor speak acknowledgement. I just gave him a timid smile - scrunched-up by him still holding my chin…

I think I could call this my first experience of yoga – self-taught - as I conditioned myself to sit utterly silent and motionless while Glasgow’s answer to Sweeney Todd combed and snipped and snipped and combed – right up to the grand finale: cutting that straight line fringe, with razor sharp scissors hovering above my eyes… At that moment I felt much the same way as knife-throwers assistant must feel during the act, I suspect…

He cut sloooowly… I could sense the sadistic delight he got from my terror… Then it was over and he whacked around me with a towel to brush away the hair clippings; demand his ‘Two-Bob’, with menaces, and then gestured with his thumb and a grunt that told me to vacate the chair...

It was over (again), for me, and I could sit relieved on the ‘waiting victims chair’ that my bruv had left to take up my place on Bernie's Sacrificial Altar... I now had only to endure my anxiety for him and his suffering...

After my bruv had endured the ordeal we were free to stagger into the cool, fresh, odour free air of liberty…

On reflection, I could make a reasonable case for saying that Bernie, and my Old Man’s insistence on sending me to him for this ritual of Establishment ‘branding’, may have been the first prod in the direction of my later ‘Hippiedom’. After-all, I did experience a kind of self-taught yoga; unintentional chiropractic manipulation – and a dread fear of visiting barbers and getting my hair cut…

By about age 12 (thanks to the insistence of my mom) I wasn’t forced into a barber’s ever again – and so I didn’t ever go to one… (The next time I went to a barbers’ was when I was 40 years old – no joking…)

In the intervening barberless years, by about 14 I had hair nearly half-way down my back - and so it remained until I was about 21 or so, then I went shoulder length. (The Old Man never did take a modernist view of that… LOL!) I had a trim now and then, even a fairly major length reduction a few times (about jaw-line level) - usually administered by myself or various women who fancied themselves hairdressers - up to age 40. At 40 my employment at the time required a conventional look…

Yes folks – there were many influences on the road to Hippiedom and the rejection of Establishment convention... Some deep and philosophical, like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.; George Harrison and Muhammad Ali… Some less-so, but still influential in their own way – like Bernie the barber… LOL!

(M).

Textural content:
©Copyright MLM Arts 11. 12. 2014 Edited and re-posted: 11. 10. 2015. Edited and re-posted: 18. 03. 2018. Edited and re-posted: 04. 03. 2019

CHEEKY SCAMS AS KIDS: THE 'POOR URCHIN' LOOK THAT GOT A FREE BUN FROM THE BAKER'S...


Ever try this as kids back in the day?


The scenario: It's been a long day on school holidays... You've cycled around... You've lazed in the park a bit... What now...?


Hmm... You and your buddy or buddies (but never more than two buddies - three of you in total) are peckish. Lunchtime is either past or is an hour or more away...


To the baker's shop window...!  Look like poor forlorn urchins - gazing longingly on the buns and scones and pies and cookies that can never be yours... Point. Press noses to the window... Look starved...

Pull your pockets inside out... Maybe between the three of you you scratch together tuppence... Not even enough for one bun... You drop your heads - and look up with sad eyes at the 'mumsie' women behind the counter - whose attention you know you've attracted by this time, and who are watching this Dickensian drama unfold...


And finally, like as not, one of these caring souls (God bless 'em), with the support of the others, will come out with three buns - usually the cheapest mind, maybe a currant bun or something, but nothing with icing (frosting as you say in the USA) or a creamy filling...


(It's partly out of 'mumsie' sympathy - and partly - maybe the biggest part - just to get these drooling little gits away from the window...)


Fulsome and sincere thanks are offered - and the buns gratefully received... Though mind you, we always had the cheek to feel a bit short-changed by not getting a top of the range bun with icing...


This stunt couldn't be pulled at the same bakers twice - or at least not untill a few months had passed; and it wasn't something we did often - but it was good cheeky scamp fun - with a tasty pay-off - when we did...


(And - as a footnote: it was a bit risky: if our parent's found out we'd be in line for a whack round the ear 'ole...)


Was it only me and my buddies who did this kind of thing? Or do you folks have similar stories...? 


(I found this image online. My acknowledgment and thanks to whoever posted it / owns it (identity unknown to me).  (M).


Textual content: ©Copyright MLM Arts: 14. 07. 2024. Edited and re-posted: 16. 07. 2024 

A BIT OF PERSONAL HISTORY... 


OK - I'm being a bit nostalgic and self-indulgent here. 

... But there I was, this morning, pottering around for archive material, and this picture appeared: it's an ariel view of a part of Glasgow, Scotland, that I've described in the late 1960s nostalgic memories of my childhood in the 'Chronicles' year by year accounts of the 1960s.

This is where I lived as a small kid between 1967 and 1971. 

The picture may or may not be from the 1960s - maybe some years earlier (but not many), but the thing is, of course, that the this was before 'the disposable age': the age when buildings are put up and then torn down only a couple of decades later; the age when landscapes and neighbourhoods change repeatedly... 

Nope: this scene was one of tenement buildings built in the 1800s; the small park (Plantation Park: bottom left) too was old (part of it still remains); and the big space from the park to the yellow marking that I inserted - a long line of public football pitches (surfaced by black ash - something like coal dust... ), known locally as 'The Plots', also existed for years before and after this picture was taken... And the whole scene looked pretty much the same throughout its existence... 

What I can say though, is that this picture cannot be later than around 1974... Because that's when 'the disposable age' began... Most of what you see in the picture was demolished to build a motorway... 

BUT HERE'S THE NOSTALGIA... 

MY FOOTBALL DEBUT

Where I've put a small blue dot (bottom left) is exactly where I lived: right at the entrance to the little park.

And you see that kinda triangular patch of grass spreading out from the entrance to the park? Well, that's the exact piece of ground where I played my first ever football match as a small primary school aged kid.

We'd just moved to the area during the summer of 1967, and all the local kids played football in that park. Up to then I hadn't been a football player - in my previous neighbourhood me and my pals did various things for recreation - but somehow football wasn't part of that... 

But all the local kids that I got to know in this new neighbourhood lived on that same block - all in apartments pretty much on that corner... And all the guys played football; so they insisted that I give it a go, as they set up for a game (jackets down to make the goal'posts') - about six in each side (so I couldn't refuse: they needed me to make up the numbers).

After a tentative start, it turned out I was a natural: I scored three goals - a 'hat trick' as it's called in soccer circles - and my team won.

Back then, games were played on the street rules understanding: duration would be a 'five - elevener' (when a team scores five goals it was halftime; change sides - then play until one or other team scores eleven - and wins); a 'seven - fifteener'; or, if there were big numbers on both sides - say 10 a
side - that meant the maximum: a 'ten - twenty-oner'... 

Obviously there were no referees, and no pitch lines, so management of the games was by mutual consent. Fouls for bad tackles were rarely called -  - it was 'a man's game' (don't start on me here! I'm just telling it as it was back then...! ). There was no off-side, of course. With no actual posts (only jackets) there would be some disputes over whether or not a goal was scored - or if the ball was over the (non-existent) bar, or past the (non-existent) post... 

Sometimes, if our crowd played against another crowd (like the crowd from across 'The Plots': our rivals in various things; or the crowd from the other end of Plantation Park) - then we'd play on the full sized pitches on 'The Plots'... But really, although it felt more like a real football match - with goals and all, we didn't like that: the goals were full sized goals - and we were no more than primary and high school kids; and that black ash surface...!  Nasty... Especially when slide tackling was a much admired and even required skill; but we'd not flinch from it all the same... And many a scraped raw leg I've had in my time from playing those games... 

When I started my new primary school after the summer holidays, my newly discovered football talent got me into my class football team. 

OUR RIVALS ACROSS 'THE PLOTS'

I've described in the article on UK Guy Fawkes Night (November 5th.): bonfire and fireworks celebrations, how for weeks in advance of we'd scour the neighborhood for anything made of wood or anything else combustible to build our bonfire with... And then find a safe place to stash it - away from rivals who were looking for a chance to swipe other crowds' bonfire material... Mind you, we too were on the hunt for the bonfire stash of other crowds... 

Our big rival was the crowd across 'The Plots'... Football matches between us and them were nothing much short of being blood sports...  And every year they searched out our bonfire stash to swipe - and we searched for theirs... Each side's vigilant looking out for these reconnoitre operations by the other side resulted in stone throwing exchanges across 'The Plots' to keep each other at bay... 

On Guy Fawkes Night the bonfires of each crowd were built on 'The Plots' - along the full length there was a good half dozen or more bonfires, built by the different crowds from along the two streets on either side. 

During the festivities on Guy Fawkes Night the rivalry between us and the crowd directly across 'The Plots' continued. We'd both managed to build our bonfires - and as they blazed, rocket fireworks would be aimed, low, at our crowd by them (in fairness, we didn't do that back: we were a cut above; we had more class... ); and marauders from both sides would gallop close to the opposite crowd and chuck banger fireworks (firecrackers) at them... Or much more risky - throw an aerosol can into their bonfire - which would then explode... 

But somehow we all got through the night unscathed - year after year... And without the intervention of Health and Safety... 

OTHER SIGNIFICANT LANDMARKS

JACK BRUCE'S SCHOOL

The yellow line that I added (on the right) is Gower Street; the red line just beneath that is the side entrance to the original Bellahahouston Academy: the high school that Jack Bruce (and me!) attended... 

Obviously I didn't attend the school at the same time as Jack Bruce, and not in the same building: they built new premises, ugly 1960s concrete slabs, about half a mile away, in 1963: that was the building that I attended; but it was the same school - and the old building was not demolished.

THE HILLS THAT TESTED YOUR CYCLING CHOPS 

The road heading upwards and to the right from the yellow line, is a steep, but quite short hill that we called 'Wee [little] Gowery': it was part of Gower Street, and led up to the new Bellahouston Academy buildings; it was given that special name by us because it was one of our cycling 'rites of passage': to prove your cycling chops you first had to ride down 'Wee Gowery'... 

And then - to really graduate - at some point you had to dare to descend 'Big Gowery'...! 

'Big Gowery' was still further along Gower Street: after a stretch of leveling off at the top of 'Wee Gowery', 'Big Gowery' climbed - and climbed... It was steeper - and much longer - than 'Wee Gowery': but ya couldn't put it off forever - one day ya had to attempt to claim full cycling chops - by taking on 'Big Gowery'... 

I must admit, I was overawed by 'Big Gowery' - but finally I was kinda tricked into it - for my own 'street cred' good...

Our crowd had gone on one of our out of neighbourhood cycling trips to a big wild field area that we called 'The Canyon' (I don't know why). We went the long way around, to avoid cycling up 'Big Gowery'... But on the way back, George, the best cyclist - an older high school kid, who led the way, announced that we were going back by way of 'Big Gowery'... 

I wasn't the only rookie in the group, and we all panicked. But George looked at us with a counseling expression, and spoke in the voice of experience, telling us: 'You can't dodge it forever...'

We steeled ourselves and tightened our jaws... When we approached the terrifying hill I gripped tightly to the handlebars of my rickety old second-hand bike - which had somewhat unpredictable brakes, btw... 

...And off we all flew behind George - who (either trying to make it look easy, or just showing off his remarkable skills) whizzed down 'Big Gowery' with his hands off the handlebars... 

It was inspiring - but I clung to my own handlebars for dear life... Once the speed of the descent became freaky, I did the 'sole of the shoe on the road' thing now and then - to slow down a bit... And finally - WHEEEE...! I shot off the hill and onto the flat road at the bottom of 'Big Gowery'...  I'd made it! I'd conquered 'Big Gowery'...! 

THE 'DISPOSABLE AGE'

My family moved out of the neighborhood, along with every other family on that side of our street - and the entire street across 'The Plots' - during the early 1970s - by order of Glasgow council: which put into operation it's plan to build a motorway right through Glasgow - and mashed up our side of our street, and 'The Plots', and the entire street at the other side of 'The Plots', and a big chunk of Plantation Park - to make way for it... 

Rock solid, great old Victorian sandstone tenements - which had.survived World War II bombing - and, in 1968, survived a freak hurricane that hit Glasgow, while new build housing crumbled with the force of it; a community of people - especially us kids, growing up together, going to school together, playing, and fighting, and rivalling, and learning together... All torn down... for that old con-trick 'progress'... 

Ah well... At least we, the Golden Era generation, had those days: the last days of real freedom... And we have the memories... 

(I found this image online. My acknowledgment and thanks to whoever posted it / owns it (identity unknown to me. ) (M).

Textual content © Copyright MLM Arts 04. 08. 2024. Edited and re-posted: 06. 08. 2024

AS KIDS, BACK IN THE DAY WE HAD FUN WITH OUR OWN VERSION OF 'VIRTUAL REALITY' - WE MADE IT OURSELVES FROM OUR OWN WONDROUS MINDS AND FERTILE IMAGINATION... 😎

I’ve driven all around the world y’know… Yeah, lots of times: me, my brothers and a bunch of buddies. Oh, and underwater too… And up in the sky… And, in fact, all the way to the moon… Coz my car was state-of-the-(imaginative)-art - and it could go anywhere, do anything, BE anything... And without it costing us a penny in petrol (gas)… LOL! 😂

I am, of course, referring to the endless imaginative fun to be had from one of the greatest of finds for kids of our age: the dumped car..! I found this picture on-line, it is from Glasgow - late 1960s or early 1970s, and although it ain't me and my buddies - it just as well could be...

Apart from being a ‘take-us-anywhere’ vehicle for made-up games, travels and adventures, these wonders of the imagination served as gang huts and meeting places to crowd together out of the rain and tell jokes and stories.

The driving seat was, naturally, the most sought-after position and it had to be allotted on a rota basis to avoid battles...!

The fun never lasted long though, because we knew that after a few days or maybe a couple of weeks some council trash removal guys would arrive to take it away – so we made the best of this treasure while it was around.

These dumped cars were quite a rarity and we had to wait ages between one getting taken away and the joy of hearing the whisper on the rumour mill: ‘There’s a dumped car on the waste ground..!’ Then it was flat-out to the scene of the sighting in the hope that we got there before any rival kids. Even if we did, there’d likely be a tussle for possession anyhow – with the losers warning: ‘Ye can’t stay in it ALL the time! We’ll claim it when you’re away..!’

And that's how it was - but heigh-ho… the car itself would be away soon enough, and that type of adventurous, imaginative fun temporarily gone... Until the next dumped car appeared... 😀

The here-and-gone... then here again (but you could never tell when) nature of it, made the fun of dumped cars all the better for the novelty, 'something to look forward to' quality.

Was a dumped, wrecked and smashed-up old motor as much fun for you folks as kids..?

(M).

Textual content:
©Copyright MLM Arts 22. 12. 2013 Edited and re-posted: 04. 01. 2015, and 03. 12. 2015. Edited and re-posted: 25. 06. 2018. Edited and re-posted: 26. 09. 2019

New paragraph

THE MEDIEVAL TORTURE THAT WAS 1960s & 70s DENTISTRY... 
ESPECIALLY FOR KIDS...

How do I start..?

The experience for folks in other countries may be different, but this is my experience, as an average UK kid...

Now, in the UK, since the 1940s introduction of the National Health Service, medical care became available to all (not free, as is commonly stated, but paid for by contribution to the common good, by all working people: National Insurance). This was and is a very good thing: everybody was lifted out the tyranny of the fear of illness, and the working class in the UK became much healthier, stronger and in all ways more robust.

(I have suggested that this more robust and dynamic UK working class, with its natural Bolshieness and socialist values, played a big part in the emergence if the youth social and cultural revolution of the 1960s, after the British [cultural] Invasion of North America in the early 1960s).

Anyway, part of this service involved regular health checks for kids at school; including dental checks.

Mind you, prevention was paid heed to as well. From the earliest years at school we were actively encouraged to look after our teeth. I well remember the Happy Smile Club: we all got membership cards, a badge, tubes if toothpaste, toothbrushes - and illustrated instructions on dental care. Once a month or so we all had to present our happy smiles to teacher, so as to get our membership renewed and another tube of toothpaste. Back-sliders (I don't remember there being any!) would be told to improve, and come back next month with whiter teeth to earn their renewal.

Official NHS dental checks were annual events, and more stringent, sombre affairs. Stern, Tweed suited dentists would set up in the school medical room for a couple of days, and we were all sent to him/her one by one... To be given a Pink Card by this stern, joyless official was like a getting a ticket to Hell itself...

A Pink Card meant an appointment with the Local Health Authority designated School Dentist, for whatever treatment had been deemed necessary. Pupils knew from friends and family who had been there, that this promised a very unpleasant experience... 😓

Pupils who 'failed' the dental examination in the Medical Room, would return to class weepy eyed, sobbing, head bowed; the hand of doom was almost visible as it rested heavy on their shoulders as they clutched their Pink Cards in trembling hands... They were consoled by frightened classmates, awaiting their turn.

'A filling ..?' they'd ask, knowingly.

'Two...' might be the reply; or even, 'A tooth out'...

A wince was the only response...

I'd reached my last year in primary (elementary) school as a full and unwavering member of the Happy Smile Club. Never a filling... To be honest, I was intrigued about these silver 'highlights' in people's teeth, which I actually thought looked pretty cool. I half WANTED some of that 'bling' (to borrow a modern expression).

It was after this final year dental check-up that I came back to class with my first Pink Card...

My friends were shocked. I had no idea how bad this was going to be. I could not believe it could be THAT bad. I mean, inflicting hideous pain on kids? Grown-ups wouldn't do that... Would they..?

A week later I'd find out... My younger brother, aged 8, was also summoned... :-(

Here I must pause to include three things that I have subsequent discovered:

1. I heard a dental nurse on the radio in the 1970s admit, when asked, that yes, dentists do have something of the sadist in their character. (!!!) She qualified that with: 'I think they have to, really...' That was not reassuring...

2. That 1960s dentists would perform tooth filling operations that were unnecessary - LOTS of them... (this I read today on a dentists forum!).

3. And, most alarmingly, that 1960s dentists believed that children could not feel dental pain, as their nerves were under developed (!!!) :-o

The dental surgery was on the top floor of a drab, shabby backstreet tenement building. The waiting room was just as drab and shabby. The window overlooked a garbage strewn back yard. Even as a kid this told me something bad about the practice itself. I began to worry...

I went in first, as older bro, intent on coming out afterwards to reassure my kid brother that it 'wasn't so bad'...

The dentist was an authoritarian looking, stern, unsmiling middle-aged woman, with greying hair, which was tied back so severely tightly as to have the effect of a do-it-yourself face lift. Her Tweed twin-set skirt and jacket showed beneath her slightly grubby white dentists coat.

I'd seen the Bond movie 'From Russia With Love', and found myself checking the toe end of her shoes for evidence of a device that flicked out knife blades...

On instruction, I lay back in the chair and opened my gob. She took my chin in her hand with reassuring gentleness: but that is the way of the sadist - lure the victim into a false sense of security before unleashing Hell... 😣

After gently (again the sadistic deception!) prodding around in my mouth with a frightening metal probe, she said:

'Hmm... Yes. A filling is needed in this tooth at the back here, my lad...' Her voice purred, in a soft tone; it was a voice that did not at all suit her appearance. She fidgeted with a cruel looking device by her side: the drill; she was attaching the bit...

'Now - open WIDE. And KEEP your mouth OPEN, or you could cause a NASTY accident! Do you hear me?!'

Her harsh tone now fitted her harsh appearance...
It was the last she spoke to me, until it was over and she told me to go...

With no anaesthetic administered, the demon dentist proceeded...

Wheeeeeee... The fast drill - for breaking through the enamel... Zzzzzzzzzzzzeeee! it whined, as it was put to the tooth. The first few moments, not so bad, then... Dear God..! She was through and into the sensitive inner tooth! Without warning a shock of piercing agony stabbed mercilessly into into my tooth, filled my head, and tensed my whole 10 year old frame...

But... Big bro syndrome set it, and I choked back the urge to cry out. I grabbed the chair arms and widened my eyes. I felt my heart thumping... But all I could think of was not letting my bro hear me scream...

She stopped and took the torture device away. I sagged with relief, and felt a bit faint. In the corner of my eye I saw her fidgeting again. She was changing the bit...

Whrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr... The slow drill, for burrowing into the softer inner tooth, and to the pulp... The first pain was nothing to this... But again my only thought was of not scaring my bro. I moaned, I groaned, tears formed irresistibly and streamed from the corners of my eyes as I lay back... But I would not scream... 😖😢

Looking back, I now suspect that my resolve only provoked the sadist in her. She was, I must guess, frustrated at my lack of demonstrative agony.

She seemed to stop and change that drill bit, with slow deliberation, over and over. Each time I thought and hoped that she was done - only to have her go in again... For one wee tooth? Still a first tooth too, I think... Sadism...

Finally, it was done. In a state if shock, trembling, but feeling heroic, I returned to the waiting room. I immediate asked my mum if my brother HAD to go in too. He did. Thankfully though, not for a filling, but for some minor procedure, which did not involve pain..!

That experience put a fear of dentistry in me that lasted until about 20 years ago or so, when a friend introduced me to the dentist I have now. No more ham-fisted sadism these days! This guy is an artist, with a friendly manner and the light touch of a concert pianist! To my amazement, he actually persuaded met have a small filling with no anaesthetic! I didn't feel a thing... :-)

So that's my memory of dentistry as a kid in this era folks. What are yours? I must hope not as bad as mine, but this was a crude and brutal age of dentistry, so maybe a few wince stories...??? :-(

(M).

Textual content::
©Copyright MLM Arts 22. 09. 2016. Edited and re-posted: 27.10.2017. Edited and re-posted: 21. 03. 2019

MY FAVOURITE MEALS ARE STILL THE SIMPLE, LOW BUDGET MEALS THAT MY DEAR OLD MUM MADE... 

it sounds corny and nostalgic, but it's true: my favourite foods are still the simple, low budget meals that my Mum cooked up on very limited resources. 

As a kid, of course, I didn't know haute cuisine from a bowl of cornflakes (I still don't. I'm glad about that too. I'm one of these people who actually likes instant pot noodles... 

Listen, I'm sure I'd also like roast duck de-Chateau Something French in a something else French sauce, on a bed of courgettes (predictive text wanted to make that Corvettes... ) or whatever, too...  But according to the Gordon Ramsay's of this world, it'd be wasted on me: a palate that can also slurp over pot noodles... 

But hey - I'd not like to lose my liking for simple, cheap food... In a post apocalyptic disaster, I'd be happily surviving on whatever is left on the bombed out supermarket shelves - while Gordon Ramsay and co. would be starving to death - gagging on anything that's not fine dining, because of their precious 'delicate palates'... )

Anyway - back to my Mum's homemade, wholesome, cheap and simple version of 'fine dining'... 

Here's my top 3:

Stovies: very traditional Scottish meal, this one. In a pub you'd get the old style, traditional version: it looks more like very thick potato and meat stew (could be mutton; could be beef), with big lumps of potato, and some onions... 

But my Mum's version was cheaper, quicker and easier: mashed potatoes; corned beef and onions mixed in - with some butter... 

Homemade beef burgers: yes, just minced beef with chopped onions - usually.... But I watched my Mum making them as a kid. She mixed oatmeal and thick, syrupy Bovril (used to make beef tea or stock) with the minced beef... For most of my life I thought that was just the standard recipe for beef burgers...  But in later adulthood (when I made them myself), I realised that Mum was just eking out the budget: getting twice the burgers out of the same weight of beef... 

Stuck in a bread roll, with some onions, tomato, cheese - they tasted wonderful to us - still better than any burger I ever tasted anywhere... 

Last - and MOST: my Mum's homemade soup: especially Scotch broth (featured in the picture that goes with this article): based on a mass of pulses - by far mostly barley - with various vegetables - and the stock from whichever meat joint (favourite and traditional was lamb) we'd had for Sunday lunch the day before... 

It's one of those soups that you could stand a spoon up in...  People debate whether it was possible for Jesus to walk on water; if someone told me he'd walked on traditional Scottish Scotch broth soup, I'd have shrugged and said:  'So...?' LOL...! 

There they are, folks: still my top 3 favourite meals: from childhood memories of what Mum's could do on a short budget... 

I've learned to make them myself too... 

How about you, folks? What are your memories of good ol' home cooking...? 

(I found this picture of Scotch broth online (I added the caption myself.) My acknowledgment and thanks to whoever took the picture (identity unknown to me)  (M).

Textural content: ©Copyright MLM Arts 30. 06. 2022

THE SIMPLE GOLDEN ERA THINGS THAT ARE MISSED: THE UK ROUTEMASTER BUS... 

(First made: 1954. Last one made: 1968. Last used in public transport: 2005.)

This is some nostalgia for UK folks - and anyone who visited the UK - most famously London - back in the day....

See this 'ere...? This is a beautiful picture of the finest example of public transport ever designed, built and put into service: the British Routemaster bus. 

It's most commonly recognised in the red livery of London Transport, but it was used in cities throughout the UK.

This bus was thing of simple genius. 

That wide open entry - exit at the back, with the central grab pole, allowed passengers to jump aboard - at their own risk - as the bus was passing, without having to wait at the bus stop - or give up on catching it if it was leaving the bus stop before you got there.

It was all a matter of personal risk and judgement: was the bus going slowly enough? were you going to be quick enough - and agile and strong enough - to grab that central pole at the open doorway and pull yourself on board? 

Your judgement. Your shout. Your risk... 

And of course, the same applied to getting off: at your own risk you could hop off at just the right place - right outside the shop or whatever that you were aiming for.

That too was of course a matter of judgment of your own agility, strength, bus speed - hand - eye coordination, fancy footwork: your ability to perform something akin to boxing's 'Ali Shuffle' - quick stepping when your feet hit the ground and adjusting to the momentum - and then a casual jog to a halt... 

But these were skills that experienced Routemaster users had (Route)mastered from youth... 

Of course, kids were strictly told never to 'hop a (Routemaster) bus' (we never called them Routemasters - just buses) - and I must say that as kids it looked a bit 'taking your life in your hands', so we didn't try that... But kinda looked upon it as a growing up 'rite of passage' - a step up in maturity: when, sometime in your teens, you finally dared to 'hop a bus'... 

It goes without saying of course, that waiting at the bus stop to get on - or for bus to arrive at the stop to get off, was the recommended use of the bus; but the great thing was that the 'own risk' option was available to those old enough and daring enough... 

In those days there were bus conductors - with ticket machines hanging from their necks by a leather strap, and a leather pouch around their waist for taking cash and giving change. Once a passenger had hopped on they'd charge them the fare from the previous stop to wherever they were going. 

These buses don't run anymore. A version of them - deceptively called the Routemaster - was reintroduced some years ago, but the rear doorway is not open - it has a door that opens and closes at bus stops: which defeats the whole advantage of the old style, much missed Routemaster of by-gone days... 

And in any case, modern day Health and Safety regulations simply wouldn't allow that old style personal risk taking provision... Yet another thing that we aren't allowed to do anymore - for our own safety - by LAW... 

I miss the old Routemaster buses - I don't know anyone who doesn't... 

(I found this image online. My acknowledgment and thanks to whoever posted it/ owns it (identity unknown to me).  (M).

Textual content © Copyright MLM Arts 05. 07. 2024. Edited and re-posted:16. 07. 2024

IMAGES FROM A 1960s U.K CHILDHOOD:
RAG AND BONE MEN...

The old traditional trade of Rag and Bone men dates back decades in the U.K; they were a familiar sight on British streets. These were guys - who very much considered themselves to be business men! - who made their living out of collecting what other people threw out as garbage.

Sometimes they'd find a valuable antique and make a killing; sometimes things that could be repaired and resold; the 'rags' were gathered up and sold by the bail (or whatever) to industries that could make good use of the fabric, by pulping or shredding for other uses. Or, if the garments were in good condition, the Rag and Bone men might sell those, or keep them for themselves.

Really, this was 1960s (and for many years earlier) recycling - just shows ya: even 'recycling' is no recent phenomenon..!

The U.K comedy classic Sit-Com 'Steptoe and Son' (remade for U.S T.V as 'Sanford and Son') was based around the lives two Rag and Bone men.

Like the Steptoes, the Rag and Bone men would, usually, ply their trade from a horse and cart, which they'd clip-clop around the back streets of British cities, yelling repeatedly: 'raaawwwag-ab-oaaaa! raaawwwwag-ab-oaaaa!...' (?) or something like that... It was unintelligible gibberish; 'raaawwwag-ab-oooa' is simply my personal deciphering: based on the droning noise and my trying, in my mind, to make it sound as close to 'rags-and-bones!' as I could...

The horse and cart guy was generally for the big stuff: furniture; whole sacks full of garments; electrical goods, etc., for which the Rag and Bone man would pay a small price - or, I gather, might even charge a small price to take the item away (as it saved the owner the hassle of 'getting rid'...).

But there were also the small-timers, or perhaps the small time side-line for some Rag and Bone businesses, which entailed wheeling a hand barrow around and collecting only old rags - cast-off garments and scraps of material, which were lightweight and generally collected only in handfuls or single items. These guys would summon custom by blowing a bugle. For the scraps that they bartered for these threadbare entrepreneurs paid in balloons - more specifically, ONE balloon... unless they were offered some very decent looking threads - then the lucky contributor could get a small, tacky plastic toy, or a goldfish in a water filled polythene bag ...

What this, of course, means, is that the barrow wheeling branch of the business was aimed at getting kids to pester their parents to find something that could be called a rag, so that they might run to the bugle's call and claim a balloon. (Surely, the first example of the cynical practice of 'child-parent pressure marketing'..?) I must assume that the bugle summons too was cynically thought out: bugle call resonated with images U.S Cavalry heroics to kids brought up on that kind movie and T.V entertainment, and besides, 'raaawwwag-ab-oooa!' was not only unintelligible, to kids it was also downright frightening... :/

The really cynically side of this was that us kids were like Pavlov’s Dogs – we’d freeze at the sound of that bugle, then run into street looking for ol’ Raggy - desperate for that balloon, or dreaming that our mother might give some rag to offer that might pass muster for that treasured goldfish or plastic toy… And sometimes some kids would (err…) just hunt around for anything that, to a kid, could be called a rag: to us kids 'a rag' might mean an item of our parent’s best clothes; we saw no value in mere garments: those ‘Sunday best’ clothes were, to us, simply goldfish or plastic toys waiting to be redeemed…

Just as us kids flew into an ‘it’s the Rag Man – must find a rag!’ frenzy at the sound of that bugle, so mothers also froze – but in trepidation. If they could, they’d grab kids and keep them, struggling, indoors until The Pied Piper of Rag-and Bone had passed. They’d lock wardrobes and make sure nothing of value was left out…

All the same, it was a not so uncommon sight to see a furious mother, in apron, head scarf and hair curlers, racing down the street as fast as her slipper-shod feet would allow, waving a water filled polythene bag with its startled goldfish resident and yelling ‘Twister! Crook! Come back wi’ my man’s best trousers! Have yer fliippin’ goldfish back too, ya con-man..!’ – adding her intent to return the goldfish by inserting it into the fleeing Rag Man’s person via the most convenient orifice, by main force…

I do not know the outcome of any these pursuits; I must hope that they ended amicably - with both parties suitably compensated and no goldfish harmed or deprived of the joy of the light of day…

By the 1970s the old familiar sight of Rag and Bone men was on the decline. My family had moved out of Glasgow to a nearby ‘New Town’ – and old familiar city sights there were few: no chimneys; no Coal Men – and no Rag and Bone men either… In the 1960s and 1970s Oxfam – the original ‘charity shop’ outlet, which had been around since the 1940s, became very popular - I think because it appealed to the psyche of the cultural and social youth revolution of this era. Other charity shops followed, and that, I must suppose, was one of the main causes of the decline of the Rag and Bone trade; others being the rise of recycling technologies – and, most saddening, the culture of ‘instant obsolescence’ that began in the late 1970s, in which old was worthless – and ‘uncool’ – and ‘the latest thing’ was all that mattered…

I can’t say that I get especially nostalgic about Rag and Bone men, or that I miss ‘em; I think that charity shops are a much better way of re-using cast offs: and they are a boon for our generation – especially the racks of old vinyl and CD’s! – But I’m a nostalgic soul at heart and this page is all about the sights, sounds and history of this era – to be recorded and recalled with warmth, and the ol’ Rag and Bone men are part of that… :)

(M).

Here’s a short piece that my old mate Big D wrote about ‘em:

The sound of the old beat up brass and copper bugle, the clip clop of the old worn out horse echoing up the street. It could mean only one thing, the rag and bone man. Children running out from houses with clothes or anything to hand over for that elusive goldfish or the tiny plastic camera with slides to look into and view images from places round the world. yeh but like most of the other kids all I got was a balloon, well that's what I get for handing him some socks and a holey jumper. :/
D:)

Textual content:
© Copyright MLM Arts 04. 08. 2015
© Big D 22. 01. 2013.
Edited and re-posted: 27. 03. 2017. Edited and re-posted: 04. 04. 2018. Edited and re-posted: 29. 04. 2019

BRINING HOME PRIMARY SCHOOL REPORT CARDS.


Bringing home primary / elementary school Report Cards... Do you remember this dread experience from childhood, folks...? 

We're currently revisiting the 1960s (at present, we're up to 1965); this is about primary school (elementary school) Report Cards: for me, that was 1960s; for others on here, it may have been 1950s or 1970s (or later, for younger folks on here) - but the experience was, I'm pretty sure, much the same... 

Bringing home your end of term school Report Card - for your parents to read...  If grades weren't so good... you were in for a stem talking to - maybe worse than that even... 

If it was OK - you'd get a nod and a sigh combined: 'Well done... Hmm... Hmm... But you can do better... ' 

You'd feel relief that it hadn't been a stinker - but still a bit deflated for the lack of fulsome praise... 

If, however, you got glowing results (I'm having to assume here - coz I never did... ), then there'd maybe be a Half-Crown (worth two shillings and sixpence; or elsewhere, maybe the reward would be a Quarter?) ceremoniously placed into your outstretched palm - and a ruffling of hair, from beaming parents... 

Perhaps because my family kept moving house, and I attended no fewer than four different primary schools, my primary school performance was 'bitty' (actually, so was my high school performance: I attended two different high schools).

I did very well well in my first couple of years (at the same school); flopped in the next couple of years (new neighbourhood - two schools: one for infants; then moved up to upper primary; my first concern in this new environment was to learn to fight / or / and to duck and dive / anticipate trouble / learn to run fast - to avoid hostility... ).

My final primary (another new neighbourhood) lasted three years; it was a lovely school; even so, I started poorly - and got lowly C and D grades - and the scowling of my parents... But I picked up dramatically in the last year and a half or so... 

I remember the report card that turned it around for me... We were issued it (in class) towards the end of my second last year. It was in a brown envelope... I dreaded it, like I dreaded them all... I opened it and... Eh? If I'd known what dyslexia was, I'd have thought that I had acquired it...  I kept seeing these 'Bs' all over the card...  I gathered my self-control - and counted them... 1...2... and lost my self-control when I exclaimed out loud, in disbelief,: 'SIX Bs...!' 

My buddy, sat next to me (a fellow poor performer; we academic strugglers grouped together) - looked at the card - in equal disbelief - and (and this is true; the image of it lives with me still) - wide-eyed with shock, he had a violent nose bleed - a spurt of blood shot out of his hooter and splattered on my pristine white Report Card... 

He was all apologies - and hearty congratulations. I was in mixed emotions: I couldn't blame him for a totally involuntary action - and besides, even at that age, I was aware that it indicated the magnitude of my achievement: to quite literally induce a nose bleed...  But I was still narked by the blemishes on my my symbol of glory that I couldn't wait to present to my parents... 

My teacher did the best she could to wipe away the blood with a tissue - and made it all OK by assuring me that my grades were all that mattered - not the state of the card... 

I actually did get something close to the fullsome praise for a glowing results Report Card - not quite though: still a smattering of Cs and Ds - and no As... But the dramatic improvement was enough to win me approval... I think I might have got a 'Tanner' (Sixpence) or even a 'Bob' (Shilling) reward - but not the high acclaim of a Half Crown... 

In my final year, my improvement continued. My two Report Cards showed eight Bs (still no As) - and at the end of year, I got a school prize for effort: a book token. 

And at the parents evening, my Old Man placed a 'Two Bob Bit' (two shillings coin) in my hand... I NEARLY made it to the Half Crown acclaim... 

Does this bring back memories, folks...? If so, please do share... 

(I found this cartoon online. The cartoonist signs as John Dempsey. My acknowledgment and thanks to him. ) (M).

POPULAR FADS FROM THE 1970s: HOME BREWED BEER... 

Here's a reminder of what was a very 1970s fad phenomenon in Britain: the home brew beer craze... 

(I know that this is something that existed long before the 1970s - and still exists now - but in the 1970s in Britain it became a very high profile and commercially marketed popular hobby / craze. ).

It was cheap, cheap (and, being the 1970s, possibly also a chirpy-chirpy...) pints of ale, lager and stout - at home - made from a kit... It was win all the way - wasn't it...??? What could possibly go wrong...???

Well... sometimes all went well... But mostly... 

A 5 gallon plastic keg* - with a tap at the bottom; hops; barley; yeast - and whatever else... The most important other ingredient being Time... Mix the kit together and let chemistry - and that kill-joy Time - do their thing... 

(*For many, instead of the traditional keg (traditional looking, really: truly traditional would have meant a wooden keg), individual bottling was the method. If the bottles happened to be clear glass, then the initial impression (described below) - that of the brew looking like fizzy 'wee-wees' - was apparent before the need to pour a sample half pint...  A bottle would, nonetheless, be opened and a sample poured... )

And... PRESTO! - 5 gallons of foaming, rich brown (or black, for the more complicated stout brewing), smooth, nutty flavoured ale... 

Or, what was more commonly the outcome: a cloudy, browny-yellow, frothless, but still gassy, bitter-sour tasting, foul smelling concoction which, if it had been created in a science lab, would have only been approached by people wearing gauntlets, visors and other safety clothing - and quickly locked in quarantine... But which, for the home brew enthusiast, who has poured a sample half-pint - after waiting the prescribed number of weeks... well, almost... nearly... well, near enough...  would have been greeted by its creator with a slightly disappointed shrug, and declared as:

'A'right... Close enough... It'll do the job...' 

A sampling sip of this latest creation - which looks and smells uncomfortably like days-old concentrated urine that's started to ferment (hey - I worked in nursing once (as a nursing assistant) THAT'S how I know... ) - meets with a recoil; a coughing and spluttering; an exclamation of some kind... But, once that's passed, a reaffirmation of:

''It's a'right... It'll do the job...' 

It kinda did too... 'The job' was reaching intoxication - and with a few buddies to share the experience, the keg would be assailed, and after the first painful pint or two of this usually VERY potent brew, the effect had already kicked-in... And you were numbed to the unpleasant aspects of this evil tasting brew from then on - and the rest was just sustaining 'the 'job'... 

But now and then a home brew really did hit the heights: near on perfection... And that was when guys (and it generally was a guy thing back then) would sometimes discover great pals that they never knew they had... For as long as it took to drain the keg... 

Neighbourhood guys who'd never talked to the successful brew-miester before (but might likely have talked ABOUT them - uncharitably), would get wind of this keg of nectar - because, having finally achieved the near miracle of the near perfect brew, the thrilled brewer would react like a lottery ticket winner - and tell everyone that he even vaguely knew; probably inviting a few that he was vaguely friendly with to sample a half pint...

Then they'd swoop on the house of the 'Golden Keg' - fall on that barrel of nectar - and go through it like a biblical plague... leaving only waste and dregs in their wake... 

The hapless brewer was powerless to refuse: he'd bragged about his achievement - so he was obliged to prove it; he'd extended his invitation to sample - so he could not now refuse - even if some of those who comprise this plague of boozy locusts were not invited by him, but by those whom he'd invited; and the offer of a sample half-pint is extended by his guests to... to the sacking of the whole keg... 

Yep, that was another aspect of the home brewing craze...

In the late 1970s, some buddies of mine took up home brewing - and I was one of the invited samplers - not half-pint: full-on boozing - though I only remember having the ''it's 'a'right - it'll do the job' experience... But as a young guy, getting sloshed with your buddies and having a laugh - really was, 'a'right - it does the job...' 

All in all - a very pleasant, nostalgic reminder of another social phenomenon from our era... 

(I found these graphic images online. My acknowledgement and thanks to the persons who made them (identity unknown)  ) (M).

Textual content: ©Copyright MLM Arts 14. 07. 2019. Edited and re-posted: 21. 06. 2020. Edited and re-posted: 31. 05. 2021. Edited and re-posted: 09. 05. 2022

EARLY TO MID 1970s UK KIDS PASTIMES


Apologies to folks in non-football (soccer) playing countries (or more accurately, I suppose, countries that aren't traditional football counties where guys (and it was ONLY guys back in the day: that's just how it was back then) grew up playing the game in parks or in the street: football today is global). But I know that other sports were played in other countries in this ad hoc / impro manner - so the spirit of the post - capturing a scene from Golden Era childhood - is still the same. 

This is a great painting, I think - I don't know who the artist is, but great job. You can tell just by the imagery exactly when it's set: long hair on the guys; flared (bell bottom) trousers; one kid is wearing a parka anorak (they were popular in the early 1970s: even before the Mod revival of around 1979)); and those strategically placed brightly coloured Raleigh Chopper bikes - with their high handlebars and chunky saddle. 

I was transported into the picture like Bert the chimney sweep and Mary Poppins in the old movie... 

After school - or at the weekends - and most of our time spent during school holidays: come Summer or Winter - rain, snow, hail, or sunshine: football was our thing... 

Football: on any big enough patch of grass; jackets or sweaters down for goalposts; if there wasn't enough space or not enough players for a full game between two sides, we'd play a game called 'Three and In' (sometimes called World Cup: as, in the two a side version, teams would choose a country to represent; where I come from, Scotland won a lot World Cups that way... ):

THREE AND IN (or WORLD CUP):

It's one set of goals and a goalkeeper.
Individuals - or for World Cup, teams of two a side - trying to be first to score three goals. The players / team that score three goals, continue to the next round.

Then keep going until there's only one player - or team of two - left without scoring three: they're the losers overall.

The loser (or one of the two losers) is the next one to be goal keeper.

Whether playing the one a side or two a side version called World Cup, it was round by round: the first player or team eliminated (because they didn't score three goals) is out - and that would be that. The remaining players / teams would continue this process is until two players or teams remained - that was the final. 

More details in the picture - for girls - pointed out yo me by long time valued 'Chronicles'contributor Mary (Gayda): girls skipping rope. 

This was very much a girls pastime. In this picture, it's the long rope - swung by two girls (one at each end, obviously), with one - or more - girls jumping: the faster the rope swung, the more difficult (and dangerous, it must be said!) the skill to keep jumping. 

(Us guys wouldn't - couldn't - be seen skipping rope with the girls: it was a girl's thing... But I can tell you now, that we secretly admired the skill and daring involved in that activity. ... And in guarded, secret moments of curiosity we'd sometimes give it a go... And invariably wind up tripping over the rope, stumbling, staggering, tied up, and with red whelt marks all over us from copping whacks from those wretched skip ropes, by our clumsy, unskilled looping and lashing of that out of control 'weapon' in untrained hands... )

My thanks to the above mentioned Mary for the following great addition to this article. 

THE GIRLS' PERSPECTIVE

'This picture is so evocative of our era. I remember boys putting their jumpers down to be used as goalposts. I bet there were some angry mums!

I loved skipping! We used an old washing line that went from one pavement across the road to the other. We didn’t have to worry about any cars coming down the street, there were very few back then as it was a quiet back street.

I loved skipping on my own too, using a rope with wooden coloured handles at either end. You didn’t want to get hit by those handles!  Ouch! I played for hours with it, doing cross overs and skipping up the garden path. Halcyon days.  '

Thanks, Mary. 

I was captivated by this picture and had to post it and do a write up on it. As I said, it was a 'Mary Poppins moment' - and I was transported into the scene... 

(This image showed up on my timeline from a Facebook page called Away Day Tours. My acknowledgment and thanks to that page; and to the artist - identity unknown to me. ) (M).

Textual content: © Copyright MLM Arts 16. 08. 2024. Edited and re-posted: 17. 08. 2024. THE GIRLS' PERSPECTIVE addition this article: © Copyright Mary Gayda 17. 08. 2024

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