>>>>gt;>>t;>>>>>>>>Four years seems like a long time when you're eleven years old, but in the blink of an eye it was gone. This is all that's left.

Saturday, 12 October 2013

Late June 1968

In the news… Tony Hancock died. An overdose, they said. A terrible shame. Sad too, that we’d be the last generation of kids to grow up miming his name by pointing at body parts.

On the telly… Though I didn’t care much for tennis there was little else on at teatime. Julie Heldman, a good looking American bird, stirred a flicker of interest but when she got knocked out, Wimbledon lost the only appeal it had for me.

Going home from school…

We Twydall boys didn’t always go home together. For one thing Stan and Clive sometimes cycled to and from school, and for another; an unwritten rule said anyone not at the gate two minutes after the bell got left behind.


I wasn’t with Clive, Paul and Stan when they discovered a pokey little shop on Canterbury Street that sold football programmes, just a little way down from Vicarage Road. The lads had nicked a couple of programmes, I learned, when they told me about it next morning, so after school that afternoon I went to see it for myself. Yes, the shop was pokey and cramped, and they sold programmes, loads of them, but I came out empty handed. The shop had nothing I wanted, not even for free.

On another occasion the rest of the gang had already scarpered when John and I came out of school. After crossing Canterbury Street to Trafalgar Road we found ourselves a few steps behind Lindsay Hawkes and Ann Howe. The girls were chattering away when something that sounded like ‘knickernini’ reached my flapping ears. What a funny word, I thought.

‘What’s knickernini?’ I shouted.

When I got no response I tried again.

‘What’s knickernini?’

Lindsay half-turned and mouthed something I couldn’t make out.

‘What?  Say it again.’

With a look of exasperation Lindsay spun around. In the loudest of hushed voices she said ‘It’s Nikini – it’s a sanitary towel, Gerard!’

For a moment I was confused by the clinical term, but when the penny dropped and I looked to John, a nod and a quiet word confirmed the awkward truth.

Feeling very stupid, I kept my big mouth shut as we walked on… very slowly.



At our next Drama class Miss Fyshe told us to split into groups. Each group would write and perform a short play, with the best being chosen by her to perform at 2A1’s end of term party. Miss Fyshe getting in on the act came as a surprise. I could only presume Miss Lake had recruited her help in the staffroom.

Our group of ten picked itself, as we were the rag tag and bobtails left standing when everyone else had sorted themselves out. It was left to me to write our play, a football themed tale of rival supporters clashing in a pub. The enthusiasm and input of Brian Lack, Raymond Wright and the rest of an unlikely bunch was surprisingly good and as the idea developed, I dared to believe we had a chance of winning.

The plays were performed in the next drama lesson. Ours went well. Once Brian and half the lads had set the scene as Tottenham supporters enjoying a pre-match natter and a pint in a pub, Raymond and the rest turned up in Manchester United colours. Good humoured insults were traded before the play ended with a loosely scripted punch up. Mayhem ensued as everyone got caught up in their roles, but it was fun to do and the lads deserved the round of applause they received from the rest of the class.

Though the lesser lights had shone brightly, the feeling that we were pissing against the wind was strengthened by Miss Fyshe’s anticipatory smile when leading lights Eddie Adams, Richard Pascal, Vicki Crook and Jean Myles took to the stage, where four chairs were positioned in an arc.

Though there was something familiar about the cosy arrangement I couldn’t put my finger on it, but when Eddie buried his head in a newspaper, I smelled a rat. If anyone was slow to catch on, they surely did when an outraged Eddie popped up from behind the newspaper to cry ‘Devaluation!’

It is! It’s Alf Garnett they’re copying… what a flipping cheek.

From thereon the play died a slow death. Perfect pronunciation didn’t help. Richard sounded like Richard, Jean sounded like Jean, Vicki sounded like Vicki, and Eddie sounded like Charles Hawtrey. But Miss Fyshe loved it. I couldn’t believe it when I saw her giggling away. Could she not see what we could see? There were no surprises when she announced the winner.

‘Well done everybody. All the plays were good and the football one was very good but…’

The result was never in doubt. The winning play, to be performed at 2A1’s end of term party was a neutered imitation of Till Death Do Us Part.


Good news...

The winner of the lower school chess championship 1967/68 was… Peter Burtenshaw! My boy had done it. As his manager, I accompanied him to the tuck shop on York Avenue to help him celebrate. The 20% manager’s fee had all been tongue-in-cheek, but Burty coughed up a bob anyway. Good old Burty.



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