October 1969

I winced when Mam asked me to run an errand for a packet of butter at the International Stores on Twydall Green. I told her I’d get it ‘but not from there.’

Mam was surprised and concerned. She couldn’t understand why I steadfastly refused to go to a shop where I’d worked for a year. ‘Why not? They always ask me how you are when I go in, always.’

I couldn’t tell Mam that as good as the management and staff were, and as kind as they’d been when I left, I couldn’t face the fuss. Just thinking about it embarrassed me. I bought Mam’s butter elsewhere and never set foot in the International Stores again.

Friday 3^rd October. Dick Tydeman was expected to make his Gillingham debut at Torquay that weekend, it said on the back of the forty four copies of The Evening Post I delivered that teatime. They showed a picture of him too. He didn’t half look gormless.

So the Gills, with Dick Tydeman in the side, went to Torquay and scored twice. Typically, they conceded three. No doubt about it, it was going to be a long hard season.

4A1 and 4A2 combined for an afternoon trip to the pictures to see Marco Polo, an outing arranged by Mister Askew as an aid to our History lessons. At a time when we were studying the industrial revolution, I couldn’t see the benefit but I was all in favour of an afternoon at the ABC, anticipating an epic in the mould of El Cid or Ben Hur. As it turned out the only thing epic about the afternoon was the expedition there and back. Opening the gate in the fence behind the craft block would have given us a twenty minute stroll across the lines. Instead, Mister Askew did it the hard way, marching us up Canterbury Street and down Chatham Hill, and back. In between, the film was a massive let down.

Brian Lack invited me to watch him play five a side football at Woodlands Youth Club. As it didn’t take much effort to walk from Eastcourt to Woodlands Road on a Wednesday night, I went, three or four weeks running. I saw some fast and furious matches but really, I only wanted to play. When nobody asked me, I stopped going.

~

When Paul, Clive and Stan started up a football team I jumped at the chance to join them. I wasn’t overjoyed with the name they’d chosen for the team – AC Medway – but that counted for little against the excitement I felt when I heard they’d got everything worked out.

‘Where will we play?’

‘Langtons’

‘When?’

‘Sunday afternoons’

‘Against who?’

‘Dunno yet but it’s a proper league. We’ll find out soon.’

‘What kit?’

‘All white. Everyone’s got white shorts and a lot of us have white shirts and socks. We’re having a practice this weekend.’

The nucleus of the side came from 4A2. With Peter Rowswell, Martin Thomas and Phil Jones amongst those already committed, I couldn’t wait to get started. Come the weekend Paul and I were nice and early when we set off for the Langtons, perhaps a little too early for Phil Jones. When we called at his house at the top of Featherby Road, as arranged, his mother answered the door.

‘Phillip? Oh yes I’ll go and get him for you. Shan’t be long, he’s still in his pyjees.’

Of one mind Paul and I looked at each other.

Pyjees? Bloody hell.