Blue Remembered Hills
Childhoods End - Skateboarding, Bowl Cuts, the death of Action Man and Cricket.
There is no philosophy and mythology this week, readers, but I am returning to my autobiography, which I have been interspersing with my posts. We are now in the 1980s in England, and life is changing. I hope you enjoy it.
I am unsure when the British skateboarding renaissance began, probably around 1977. I first saw such an object at my junior school, Newbold, as the Headmistress’s son Olwyn Watson had one from the US, this was a ply deck and rubber wheels. Suddenly plastic, polypropylene, skateboards appeared in England and all young boys wanted one. It was a craze, a mania - it was on the news!
The local Sports Shop was called John Wood Sports in Wokingham, and it was from here that I bought my first skateboard. My dad had played football with John Wood at Sutton United.
We were in the shop that morning to buy some football shirts for Wokingham Town when my eyes alighted on a new purple board with orange wheels. A skateboard consisted of a deck, two trucks, and wheels. My parents noticed that this object had caught my attention and that of other young boys in the shop, indeed I seem to recall an atmosphere of mania and excitement around skateboards. The board, knee pads, and a helmet were soon purchased. Even my risk-averse mother seemed happy that this item would soon be in my hands. They were always worried about me fitting in, perhaps because I was an only child and liked my imaginative games rather than the company of my peers.
When we got back home, I went over the lane opposite and began to learn how to use my skateboard. It was exhilarating stuff. The board was a gateway and connection with the other boys in the village who went to Garth Hill and once proficient on my board I was out skateboarding up the council estate with Ian Marner and several other boys whose names escaped me. These were the rough kids, and I was suddenly holding my own. In the light nights of summer, we would meet after school and skate around the village. It was terrific fun and for once I was cool.
And then something miraculous happened.
Again, we had returned to John Woods some months later. In the shop was stocked a skateboard beyond anything I had ever seen; a wooden deck of a dark mahogany colour with grip tape, cast metal trucks, and lime green kryptonic wheels. It was much wider than my plastic deck and the wheels were a thing of beauty. This was, we were assured, the latest thing from America. I stood aghast, mouth open. Encircled by my parents, they looked at me and told me they would buy it for me!
This was beyond belief and never happened to me; I was always the last one to get new technology, my bike at home was old, and I was not allowed a tape recorder as others had been.
Soon I was travelling back home in the car hugging this Tesla of a skateboard to my chest. Once back I was straight up the estate to show my ‘crew’ who all wanted a go on this supersonic board. For a few weeks, I was an envied local celebrity. The word got around, and boys came from other parts of the village to have a go on my board. I was admired and feted.
What had possessed my parents to part with a considerable sum of money -some £120 for a skateboard? Were they flushed by their new economic situation since my Aunt had died? I like to think that they saw that the last year or so had been hard for me and this was the redress. Who knows?
The timings of events are lost to memory, but around this time my dad decided that I was too old to play with action men and these were ceremoniously burnt on a bonfire in the garden. This was another end-of-childhood moment and rite of passage. He did not know that I had hidden my few Marvel figures in the sliding cupboard!
Before we leave Binfield I must mention hairstyles – although that’s something of a misnomer here. The barber in the village was called Norman Munday, father of Willie Munday and husband of Thelma Monday. Norman was an affable and amusing fellow; the problem was Norman was no Vidal Sassoon! Norman was known as the famous ‘Bowl Cut Barber of Binfield’. The challenge was Norman only had one style of cut, the before mentioned bowl cut which most men and all the youngsters had in Binfield.
Norman came to a sad end. One cold winter’s night he returned from the Victoria Arms Public House in a drunken haze to find that his long-suffering wife had locked him out of the house and gone to bed to teach him a lesson!
It seems that Norman settled down in the garage to see out the night, we can perhaps imagine him there, he also had a bowl cut, beer fumes thick on his breath.
The temperature dropped alarmingly that night and, in the morning, Thelma Munday found Norman’s prone body in the garage. He was dead. The story spread around the village and people tried their best to help Thelma and little Willie. On a positive note, that was the end of the bowl cut in Binfield.
Our house in Binfield was sold and we were to move to my aunt’s old house in Winnersh, this also meant waving goodbye to Garth Hill. This was a change of destiny for me as I will explain. I don’t remember the ‘goodbye’ and move from Binfield; it was certainly the end of childhood, although the shock of Garth Hill had effectively done this. I would be displaced again and must make new friends. I have always liked order and structure so this was both scary and exciting.
The green velvet jacket and black roll-neck sweater I wore for my interview at The Forest School was a questionable outfit and I looked like a cross between Jason King and Simon Templer. I performed terribly at the interview and recall struggling with the Maths and French questions I was asked, but I did speak well about ‘Frankenstein’ which I had been reading. I also spoke about Drama. Jack Pearcy was the Head, a lovely fellow with bushy eyebrows. He knew my dad from the football and that is one of the reasons I felt I was offered a place. I was to start at the summer half term, so I got to settle in before Year 9. I always tried to relax pupils when I interviewed them as a Headmaster years later.
It felt right to leave Binfield.
Auntie’s house had been gutted and completely redecorated and although a bungalow seemed strange it was a nice place to live in and the general area was certainly more connected for a teenager with a train line that stretched to Reading in one direction and Wokingham in the other. I was pleased I would not have to endure Bracknell anymore but would miss the comic stall. Indeed, the move to meant I stopped reading comics for a while, although I kept my Xmen issues.
It was time to grow up – I was nearly 13 and the hormones were kicking in.
I liked my new school uniform – a smart blue blazer, black trousers, a blue and gold striped tie, and Clarke’s shoes. I felt proud to put it on. Next door to us lived the Rudges, and the younger son, a singular character called Adrian, lived there. Although very different characters it was decided by the adults that we would walk to school together and that first morning I found myself walking in with Adrian ‘Fudge’ Rudge. At the crossroads, we met his friend Martin O’ Hanion, whose father owned the local fencing company. He was a short and engaging character who was not long for this world.
My form teacher was a delightful Welsh man called, Mr Evans, and he doubled as our history teacher. At last, a teacher who cared for us.
In all schools, there is a pecking order and amongst the boys, this school was highly striated, but there was a structure and order here that I loved. Earlier I mentioned our family friends the Fletchers, who I had not seen for some years. I soon discovered that they were top of the tree at Forest; that aggressive upbringing and their induction into the mysteries of Judo (they were in the England squad) made them formidable fighters who never backed down. They had a reputation and placed a metaphorical safety blanket and a force field around me and were eager to tell anyone who even looked at me funny that there would be consequences. Again, the gods had looked after me. I was no fighter.
My form was an interesting bunch, and they all had nicknames, except Adam Tabrett who used to eat at least six bags of cheese and onion crisps a day. He was a slow-moving but strong boy who rotated slowly from the hips but rarely turned his neck. It was Adam who instructed me in the niceties of sex and all matters pertaining when I sat next to him in history. Although I never saw him with a girl, so I suspect the knowledge was theoretical. He lived near the Fletcher’s and my association with them had a certain currency. I was also welcomed by Tony Chivers with his center parting and gappy teeth. Tony was destined to reach the zenith of his ambitions – the top of the ladder he used to clean windows in Wokingham with his dad. He was a tubby lad with no apparent bottom, but he certainly had character. He also had money and there was something of the gypsy about him. A bit part player in my story but an amusing one.
This cast of crazy characters is truly unforgettable: Rabbit Ransely with his buck teeth, Richard Price (the Giraffe – but we were too scared to call him this to his face) Jimmy Dog, the flat-faced boy, who punched the door and broke his hand, Gary Pig Redmond whose twin brother (they were conjoined at birth by the eyelids apparently) was in another form and David Brown, Ivan Longland whose Dad was a Policeman, an American boy called Curtis Brown and Neil Walker with his prominent hair lip. A small group of demure and quiet characters: Robin Jolliffe, Barry Nibbs, and a few others I forget, used to train spot from the school grounds.
At break time I was looked after by Adrian and Martin and would play football with them on the field and mix with their class.
I joined Year 8 for the last three weeks of the summer term and then the long summer holiday began.
Dad had finished playing cricket for Binfield but soon there was a knock on the door at our new house. Jack Lewington was someone we had all known for years from Wokingham Football Club, an ardent supporter he was known for his moaning and general negativity. Balding, short, and stout you couldn’t help like Jack as he puffed on his cigarettes. His mission was to secure Dad’s services for Emmbrook Cricket Club. Dad was such a natural ball player that with little practice he could always perform, primarily a backfoot player he was an excellent puller and cutter of the ball as left-handers can be. He was also a good wicketkeeper. I write this for you Peter, my beloved son – he would have loved seeing you play.
This was a great boon to me as I started playing men’s cricket at thirteen. Embrook had a Sunday second team run by a couple of kindly characters who were also completely useless at cricket – Vere Smith and Bob Stiff, who both worked for Wokingham Plastics. This rag-tag team was composed of boys like me and a revolving number of adults.
Vere was our captain and general organiser a tall and fleshy man who was completely uncoordinated and looked like he was made by Aardman Studios, but a great supporter of mine and I found myself opening the batting at this tender age and learning so much about this great game.
Our star player was Spider a wiry man who opened the bowling and came in to hit at number 7. His career ended after one of those bungee roof-rack securers sprang back and went into his eye, his subsequent blinding rendered cricket impossible.
Robin to Vere’s Batman was the before mentioned Bob Stiff, a short and fat Elton John look-a-like who wore bottle top national health glasses. I recall one match in drizzle where poor Bob was bowling on the wrong strip because he couldn’t see out of his glasses. Our number five batsman was Gonzo, who looked like the character from the Muppets and who I never heard speak a coherent sentence, he just screamed when he wanted a run!
My opening partner was the kindly Ian Chapman, who was an enormously obese man and who was unable to run singles. This was a real problem for our partnership as I could only score singles at this stage unless I received a short lollipop outside leg to pull, but my game at this stage was mainly constructed on pushes into the covers and the leg glance. I was obdurate in defense and would bat for long periods for not many runs. Ian, with his formidable girth, would connect with the odd delivery and a boundary would be scored.
The whole enterprise was great fun but also owed more to BT Barnum than the MCC. Ian worked at Billy Smart’s Circus and his best friend was a dwarf, called Brian, who we occasionally used if we could not field a full team. Jack Lewington’s sons Paul and Gary were a little younger than me and made up the team, they were useful players. I nearly forgot our wicketkeeper, the owner of Wokingham Plastics, possibly in his late fifties and a serious cricketer in his times. A class act behind the stumps and a classy bat.
Vere managed to secure us a series of local fixtures against people like Embrook School Staff, Broadmoor staff, and some other work teams. There were many amusing and crazy moments.
Wokingham Plastics eventually closed but by then I had graduated to the first team which Dad was now captaining to promotion and success. He was a super leader and people wanted to follow him. I never had his natural charisma.