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
New paragraph
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
1976: December: A CLASSIC PUB AND CLUB 'BAND-IN-A-VAN' TALE...
These little anecdotes are familiar stories to many from our generation - either something similar happened to folks reading this, or maybe they heard similar stories about people they knew back in the day.
They're such a necessary part of building the street level background picture of this era: without which the picture is barren and incomplete.
Wannabe Rock stars - weren't we all...? Or at least, we (realising our limitations) wanted to be around our buddies' bands: and there certainly were lots of them.
(A quick personal qualifier: I actually didn't want to be in a band: I only ever wanted to write the lyrics for their songs (Procol Harum's Keith Reid was an inspiration). And I did that - sat down with some riff writing buddy or other - and a drink or several () and knocked out some million sellers... )
Anyhoo - this was 1976. 'Chronicles' late, great buddy Big D was in his first band - called (wait for it: the not at all posing and pretentious) Cosmic Warriors... Hey listen - it sounded mighty cool at the time.
They only played covers, so no need for a lyricist - but I roadied.
The band had only formed a few months earlier, and their manager (yes, the band had a manager: a local middle-aged geezer, who's qualification to be a band manger seemed to be learned as he went along: but he had a Ford Transit van. ) - Where was I...? Ah yes: their manager got them booked onto a Scottish talent contest - playing knockout rounds at working men's clubs around the West of Scotland. The final was to be held at the Glasgow Pavilion Theatre - a quite prestigious venue; the top prize was a recording contract with a small Scottish label.
So our intrepid Cosmic Warriors got to what was, if I recall correctly, effectively one of the semi-final heats: the winners of these heats got to The Pavillion.
The club that was to host the heat was on the Southside of Glasgow - about 15 miles from the town we all lived in; the gig was set for an early December Friday night.
But... As every pub and club band member will know, band ego bust ups were not confined to superstar bands: woah no: 'artistic differences' prima donna rages occured in church hall or 'Joe's Garage' bands too: Cosmic Warriors no exception...
On the Wednesday prior to the semi-final, the band's second guitarist quit...
For months the band had been rehearsed and tightly drilled around a 5 piece: drums, bass, two guitars, and frontman. They had the same three song set: Deep Purple's 'When A Blind Man Cries'; Free's 'Wishing Well'; and a great track by recently formed kinda semi-supergroup Widowmaker - called 'On The Road'.
I don't know the technicalities, but for some reason everything went belly up if they couldn't play with a two guitarist set up.
ROADIE M TO THE RESCUE... 'ISH'
Now, it so happened, that in October that year I'd reluctantly started a new job at a warehouse in our town. I discovered that already working there was a guy called (for anonymity sake, we'll say) Rick, who lived near me; he was a year younger than me - and I knew him on sight, but not to talk to. We hit it off straight away; turned out he was a guitarist - had been playing since he was a small kid - taught by his old man, who'd been a semi-pro himself in his younger days. So we talked music a lot.
I'd mentioned this workmate of mine to Big D a few times - wondering if he knew him; telling him that I'd been around to his place and heard him play - he was good. As tensions with the Cosmic Warriors number 2 guitarist mounted, the band invited my work buddy to meet them, and informally hear him play, just in case they needed a replacement guitarist at some point.
Mind you, great player though he already was, even at 17, it was the case that, other than a high school concert in his school days, Rick hadn't played live at all.
Well, on the Thursday before the semi-final, I get a phone call from Big D: 'M - a crisis: ------ has quit the band. Can you ask Rick if he'll step in for tomorrow's semi-final?'
'Eh?', I replied, slightly taken aback, and continued: 'That's a bit much ain't it...?! The guy's never played a proper live gig before... Oh, and he's never played the songs on the set... In fact, I know he's never even heard of 'On The Road' - or 'When A Blind Man Cries': they're both obscure tracks - even the Purple track...'
Big D was desperate. 'We NEED a second guitarist, mate...! He's your mate - please ask him - persuade him...!'
I tried phoning Rick at his parents house, but he was out. (No mobiles back then, of course.)
So that meant springing the request on him first thing next morning at work:
'Hoi Rick! A word before you start stacking pallets, mate... Do you want to be in Cosmic Warriors...?'
'Eh? Oh! Well... I'd hoped for an invite, but wasn't expecting... But, hmmph... well - yeah, I suppose I do... Thanks...'
'Great', I said, trying to sound casual. 'There's a gig coming up; a big deal: competition semi-final. You're in the band - Big D asked me to ask you - no audition: you're in - and playing the gig...'
Rick froze: playing live was what he knew he had to do if he wanted to move on with his Rock star ambitions... But this was all a bit sudden... Still, he'd have time to rehearse and jam - and build up towards getting over his (very natural in everybody) stage fright.
'OK. Yes. I'm IN...! When's the gig...?'
Without pause for drama, I casually announced: 'Tonight...'
"WH....AAAAT...?!!' Rick didn't so much speak the word - more kind of sharply expelled the word - like the wind had suddenly been knocked out of him by a thudding blow.
'Tonight, mate. Tonight. Southside of Glasgow. The band will pick you up at your place at 6. 00pm. Just bring your guitar - they've got the amps. You'll be fine...'
'FINE...! FINE...!?? I know what they play - you've told me - but I've never played those songs - EVER - flippin' hell, man, I've never even heard of two of them...! How the hell am I supposed to just pick up and play with no rehearsal...!'
'Big D's heard you play. He's impressed. He's sure you can do it He'll tutor you through the chords in the back of the van on the way to the gig. You'll be fine...'
Even I wasn't convinced. But it was my job to get Rick onboard.
You could tell just by looking at Rick that he was in one of those 'zones' that we all go into at times of forced contemplation: where the entire universe dissolves around you, and only you and your racing thoughts exist...
'I've never played a proper live gig before...' he droned - glassy eyed: more thinking out loud than continuing this conversation.
'Now's your chance...' I said, glibly - and immediately regretted it: how crass that was at this moment of musical crossroads for Rick...
At last, he'd wrestled with the issue - and triumphed over fear and self doubt (I admired him for that - and still do admire anyone who takes that kind of 'in at the deep end' sudden plunge); calmly, he declared:
'OK... I'll do it. But you realise that I'll be... [for discretion Is I'll edit this by saying that he intimated the possibility of him soiling himself... ]'
'You'll be fine. You'll be fine...' I was becoming the Archduke of Glib and Crass...
SO TO THE DETAILS...
So the band and me pulled up outside Rick's patents place at 6.00pm., all packed in the back of the regulation club band Ford Transit van - along with all the gear - and a trembling Rick piled in with us, Gibson SG unpacked (holding the carrying case in his other hand) and, putting the guitar case safely aside, got ready to start this weirdest of rehearsals.
He sat opposite Big D - who was using his white Strat copy (not Fender), to tutor his impromptu student (D's prized Gibson Les Paul was on-board, packed in the case - for use at the gig). I watched in wonder at these two youthful, dedicated musicians going through chord shapes together over and over during the hour or so drive to the gig - while the band's frontman quietly sang the words to each song at the appropriate places - for a bit of extra help...
It was a marvel of artistic and creative determination, from a bunch of young guys with their eyes on the prize: trying to make something of their musical talent - and going through the 'hard yards' to get there...
So we got to the gig; the band's turn on stage came around... It was decided that Rick's guitar would be turned down a little (not off, by any means, just 'understated') - which added to his confidence - or more accurately, his repression of his fear - and away they went...
With a crackling heightened tension that seemed to bring out the best in the band, Cosmic Warriors completed their set...
When it was over, there was relief and celebration all round - just to have completed the set successfully - no disasters; and with it, fulsome thanks to Rick for stepping in at what was really NO advance notice.
Rick was on cloud nine - he'd done it: he'd played his first proper live gig: the rite of passage towards achieving his musical ambitions.
No, they didn't win and make it through to the final... But I look back at it as a triumph for Rick - who'd conquered his nerves - his fear even - at being placed in a situation where, at just 17 years old, his dream of playing live - an essential rite of passage for any aspiring musician - was presented to him in a totally weird set of circumstances - and, rather than 'bottle it' (as we say in the UK: meaning: lose your nerve) - he steeled himself and jumped right in.
And it was a triumph for the band - to take a bad situation and make it work - find a way. It wasn't about the result that night: it was about the spirit of the youth of our era and (to unashamedly use this old corny expression): 'living the dream' - or at least giving it our best shot...
Stories like this one - ambitious, 'Joe's Garage' bands of buddies - travelling to gigs crammed into the back of a van - struggling with clashing egos - overcoming problems - just for the dream - the freedom of it - are many from folks of our era: like I said: this is so much a part of the background story of our history...
EPILOGUE
I lost contact with those involved in this story years ago. But though they remain anonymous, what I can say is this, as a picture of 'the band in the van':
One guy became something of an entrepreneur...
Rick became a professional musician. He is quite well known in underground Folky / Country / Bluegrass circles: he and his collaborators play pubs, clubs, and festivals around the world: he travels to play Country and Bluegrass at venues in the home of Country and Bluegrass - USA (!) where he is greatly appreciated.
Big D realised his lifelong dream of going to live in the USA. Before he left (to settle their with his American wife, Pamela) he and this old buddy of his set up a Facebook site that would try to put right the woefully inaccurate recording of the history of the 1960s and 70s...
That old buddy of Big D's was the band's roadie - that'd be me...
In between times, I'd developed my natural talent and inclination to be a studious geek - and moved to London and got m'self all educated an' all...
In our different ways, 'the band in the van' (including the roadie) all managed to keep 'living the dream'...
(I found this image online (and added the caption on top); my acknowledgment and thanks to whoever posted it / owns it ((identity unknown to me). (M).
Textual content: © Copyright MLM Arts 22. 10. 2024. Edited and re-posted: 23. 10. 2024
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