Firsts

On the telly…

I enjoyed the first episode of a new comedy… Please Sir!

In the news…

The great and the good were always dying and getting mentioned on the news. Most meant nothing to me but I sat up and took notice when they said Enid Blyton had died. Everyone knew who Enid Blyton was – we’d all grown up reading her books. Indeed, Shadow the Sheepdog by Enid Blyton was the first proper book I’d ever read.

November 5^th: I spent most of the evening trying to get my little brother Garry to sleep. A baby still at five years old, Garry couldn’t talk and still wore nappies. Mam always tucked him in for the night around seven and it was my turn to lie beside him till he settled. Sometimes he dropped off quickly, sometimes he didn’t.

My heart sank when I heard the back door open and the excited whoops of my brothers running into the garden. Then I heard Dad telling them to stand back. With every bang and fizz outside, Garry reacted, mumbling the language of his own little world. I tried whispering to him and I tried singing. When that didn’t work I cupped my hand over his eyes and pleaded with him to go to sleep, but Garry didn’t drop off till the fireworks were over and everything had gone quiet.

My brothers were still on a high when I finally got downstairs. ‘You should have seen them!’ they said. I couldn’t disagree, but it wasn’t to be.

The censorship laws had been changed, allowing full frontal nudity in the London stage show Hair.

Dirty buggers

A song from the show – Ain’t Got No I Got Life – was climbing the charts and according to playground rumour ‘I’ve got tits’ could clearly be heard in the lyric. Martin Waterman for one swore blind he’d heard it. I made a mental note to listen out for it.

I sneaked off to the High Street one dinner time with Kim Weobley on a scouting mission to WH Smiths. The money I earned at the International Stores was burning a hole in my pocket and I had my heart set on something special. Though I found what I was looking for, it wasn’t practical to buy it there and then. Instead, I went back after school to become the proud owner of a very first LP.

In the alley connecting Leeds Square to the back of Twydall shops, I notched another first when my mate Kevin Garlick bought ten fags. I smoked my first cigarette and then a second. There was no third.

After writing a short comic piece for my English homework I agonised over the ending. The sketch, about a courting couple sitting on a park bench, was set up to end with a ‘bloody conker!’ falling from a tree. But writing bloody in a school essay was unheard of, yet without it the line fell flat. With some misgivings I decided to put it in.

Mister Porter stood at the front of the class with an exercise book in his hand.

‘I’d like to read this to you…’

As our form teacher was in the habit of reading the best essays to the class, I thought little of it, but my jaw dropped when he started reading.

‘Do you love me Charlie?’ squeaked Mister Porter, in a comedic female voice.

As titters broke out around the classroom, I sat flabbergasted. Mister Porter wasn’t just reading my story; he was acting it out. He read the whole thing from start to finish, bloody and all, which prompted an outbreak of laughter that was music to my ears.

‘Who wrote that one, Sir?’ someone asked, when the laughter died down.

‘That was written by Gerard,’ said Mister Porter.

As all heads turned my way, I felt humble and proud. And vindicated.

Thank you Sir