Ok... So lets go back a bit before the wonderful internet..
CB radio. 10-4 for a copy, and all that..
The macho world of the trucker. - I like trucking and I like to truck! see I like Trucking ..
CB radio was a mans world, where women were refered to as 'seat covers' and opertaors sporting 'Handles' like 'Sofa King' - yeah well done mate, your Mother would be proud of you.
So this was the public's first introduction the concept of personal communications - a time before IPhone;s and Androids.. These days the talk of cyber terror is on the lips of every security analyst in the world - but its not new.. Oh no. It's not new!
You see, back then, the personal communications (CB Radio) ran on an illegal frequency of 27MhZ AM (Amplitude Modulation). Now without boring you with the techy bit, OK maybe I will justa a little....AM is a bit of a shit when it comes to interference.
Thus thousands of normal people, who weren't trying to impress a 'seatcover' by the size or thier 'Rig' were woken at various times of the night as thier Radio alarm clock stiluated by interference, suddenly screamed ..
'Pigpen This here's Rubber Duck and I'm about to put the hammer down: 10-4'
I blame Kris Kristofferson.
So what's a man to do?
With all these sexist nutcases playing 'Convoy' from thier Ford Escorts (Or more likely thier solo bedsit), with a miniscule 4 watts of transmission power?
Well a certain person (Me).. had access to some 'COUGH' military equipment that could transmit on the relvant frequency at 1000W - ONE MOTHER FLIPPING KILOWATT!!
Modulating this with a 1KHZ tone -( you know, that noise you get in your head every now and again - please tell me you do) .....I found that having one man scanning the reciever (RX) channels, picking up the saddos, then shouting out the frequecny to myself in the radio room, meant that I could quickly dial the offending frequency into the synthesiser, press the transmit button and WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!
Obliterate any CBer's within 10 miles of my antenna.
What fun!!!
They've spent £50 in Tandy on a fancy system and they cant do bugger all about it.
They hop channels, but so do we.
They talk about trying to triangulate the source of the 'interference' but what are they going to do about it?
They're illegal, we were covered by the official secrets act.
10-4 good buddy - eat my shorts!
Sunday, 23 October 2011
Brief Encounter..
I told you this wouldn't be in cronological order...
Just recently I had the pivilige of travelling to North America. Let me tell you people.
Time is a bastard. A complete and utter bastard.
Cheers 'Becca.
Just recently I had the pivilige of travelling to North America. Let me tell you people.
Time is a bastard. A complete and utter bastard.
Cheers 'Becca.
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
The Winter of Discontent.
13 December 1978. That was a Wednesday. - Wow I can almost hear you think... What a memory this man has. - well not quite. We all have them - dates that are etched in our memories and this is one of mine.
The phrase winter of discontent was plagiarised from Shakespeare's Richard III ("Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this sun of York") and coined by the British media to describe the dying throes of the Labour government under James Callaghan.
"I think its time for truth - and the truth is you're lost uncle Jimmy' sang the Jam in '77 and they were right. Amid spiralling anger at the governments wage policies (Ironically actually bringing down inflation from its Tory '75 high of 26% to single figures) the public, inspired by the Ford workers strike, went on the largest withdrawal of labour since the great depression of the late 20's. Railwaymen, Refinery workers, Ambulancemen, Nurses and Lorry Drivers went on strike. Bodies went unburied, Petrol stations closed, hospital admissions were reduced. And the snow came down - hard.
So what happened on the 13 of December, I hear you ask... Well, I actually WENT to work..... I joined the Royal Air Force. - Alright, I was already working in a factory, but deep amid the strife of the time, I travelled by one of the few trains that were running, to RAF Swinderby in Lincolnshire. Sticking two fingers up at my parents from the window as the train pulled out of the station, seems in hindsight a little harsh, but it was a momentous breakaway for me. Away from the shit and grime of the factory. Doubling my wages at a time when people were striking over pay.
For the next 6 weeks (plus 2 weeks off for Christmas) I would reveille at Oh-Six-Fifteen Hours. - 6.15 am. A time I didn't know existed, in the pitch dark. Whilst we dressed, radio 2 was piped through the public address system, playing songs such as Mirrors by Sally Oldfield and occasionally songs from Des O'Connors Christmas album.. Winter Wonderland..
Scoffing as much food as I could muster in the Airman's Mess, by 7.30am I was stood by my bed ready for inspection, by 8am I was doing Physical Training, or learning how to shoot, fight - the key skills needed to be an Airman in the Royal Air Force. My hair shorn, I was taught to wash clean and Iron. We marched everywhere, and although I ate 3 huge meals a day, and didn't have any weight to lose... I lost weight.
I became a marksman with the standard issue Self Loading Rifle, firing 5 of its 7.62mm rounds through a circle the size of a 2 pence piece. The rear sight broke my spectacles when it kicked back. And without this eye correction I then suffered the humiliation of not seeing my cue from the RAF Regiment corporal when carrying out chemical warfare training in the dreaded 'Gas Chamber' - Annoyed at my lack of response to his gesticulation in the swirling fog of CS Gas, he dragged me forward and removed my Gas Mask, or to give it it's correct title a Mk6 Respirator.
Gasping for air I stood upright whilst he processed 3 more Airmen. Made them remove their mask and give their name rank and number. By the time he got to me, I was a gibbering wreck. I think i spluttered out the details, but had to be dragged outside by my webbing, where I threw up on the grass.
Did I mention the snow? Well the culmination of all this running around were 3 days of field training on the North Yorkshire Moors. In a Tent. One of the nights was spent in a makeshift bivouac made by clipping 2 waterproof ponchos together. We patrolled at night, Escape and Evasion in our green camouflage outfits, across a white winter wonderland, lit by a full moon - Unsurprisingly, we were all caught... The Winter of discontent became a winter of discomfort.
But somehow, I passed the exams. Overcame my fear of heights on the assault course and on the 31st January 1979, inside a freezing cold hanger, with the snow still lying around. We paraded our flight of recruits and 'Passed Out' as Aircraftmen in the Royal Air Force. With four months of trade training ahead of me, and a 9 years contract, it was only the beginning. But those six weeks, and the Winter of discontent, are etched in my mind like no other.
And always will be.
The phrase winter of discontent was plagiarised from Shakespeare's Richard III ("Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this sun of York") and coined by the British media to describe the dying throes of the Labour government under James Callaghan.
"I think its time for truth - and the truth is you're lost uncle Jimmy' sang the Jam in '77 and they were right. Amid spiralling anger at the governments wage policies (Ironically actually bringing down inflation from its Tory '75 high of 26% to single figures) the public, inspired by the Ford workers strike, went on the largest withdrawal of labour since the great depression of the late 20's. Railwaymen, Refinery workers, Ambulancemen, Nurses and Lorry Drivers went on strike. Bodies went unburied, Petrol stations closed, hospital admissions were reduced. And the snow came down - hard.
So what happened on the 13 of December, I hear you ask... Well, I actually WENT to work..... I joined the Royal Air Force. - Alright, I was already working in a factory, but deep amid the strife of the time, I travelled by one of the few trains that were running, to RAF Swinderby in Lincolnshire. Sticking two fingers up at my parents from the window as the train pulled out of the station, seems in hindsight a little harsh, but it was a momentous breakaway for me. Away from the shit and grime of the factory. Doubling my wages at a time when people were striking over pay.
For the next 6 weeks (plus 2 weeks off for Christmas) I would reveille at Oh-Six-Fifteen Hours. - 6.15 am. A time I didn't know existed, in the pitch dark. Whilst we dressed, radio 2 was piped through the public address system, playing songs such as Mirrors by Sally Oldfield and occasionally songs from Des O'Connors Christmas album.. Winter Wonderland..
Scoffing as much food as I could muster in the Airman's Mess, by 7.30am I was stood by my bed ready for inspection, by 8am I was doing Physical Training, or learning how to shoot, fight - the key skills needed to be an Airman in the Royal Air Force. My hair shorn, I was taught to wash clean and Iron. We marched everywhere, and although I ate 3 huge meals a day, and didn't have any weight to lose... I lost weight.
I became a marksman with the standard issue Self Loading Rifle, firing 5 of its 7.62mm rounds through a circle the size of a 2 pence piece. The rear sight broke my spectacles when it kicked back. And without this eye correction I then suffered the humiliation of not seeing my cue from the RAF Regiment corporal when carrying out chemical warfare training in the dreaded 'Gas Chamber' - Annoyed at my lack of response to his gesticulation in the swirling fog of CS Gas, he dragged me forward and removed my Gas Mask, or to give it it's correct title a Mk6 Respirator.
Gasping for air I stood upright whilst he processed 3 more Airmen. Made them remove their mask and give their name rank and number. By the time he got to me, I was a gibbering wreck. I think i spluttered out the details, but had to be dragged outside by my webbing, where I threw up on the grass.
Did I mention the snow? Well the culmination of all this running around were 3 days of field training on the North Yorkshire Moors. In a Tent. One of the nights was spent in a makeshift bivouac made by clipping 2 waterproof ponchos together. We patrolled at night, Escape and Evasion in our green camouflage outfits, across a white winter wonderland, lit by a full moon - Unsurprisingly, we were all caught... The Winter of discontent became a winter of discomfort.
But somehow, I passed the exams. Overcame my fear of heights on the assault course and on the 31st January 1979, inside a freezing cold hanger, with the snow still lying around. We paraded our flight of recruits and 'Passed Out' as Aircraftmen in the Royal Air Force. With four months of trade training ahead of me, and a 9 years contract, it was only the beginning. But those six weeks, and the Winter of discontent, are etched in my mind like no other.
And always will be.
Friday, 14 January 2011
It aint necessarily so..Religion and the Bible.
Clearly many stories in the Bible passed muster when the translations were first made about 8-900 years ago? – But don’t when faced with the modern understanding. However is it bogus? - It ain't necessarily so..
I was working in Herzlia, Israel, early 2002 and I had a couple of days off, so took a trip to Jerusalem, up into the mountains. Past the hulks of Ben Ghurions armoured vehicles from the Israeli break out to Jerusalem in 1948 (or so).
Upon arriving there, I was dropped off at the Mountain of Olives and the garden of Gethsemane overlooking the city. Shock number one. These places exist, I wasn’t expecting that. At this point I went very quiet and felt close to tears. I called my wife on the mobile, and told her where I was. From there, we visited the vast gold dome of the rock. Actually a mosque. We looked at the old city walls, and the church of Mary Magdalene. Bullet holes pockmarked the walls. – This was also a mosque and then a church, and then a mosque as the front line moved over the past 60 or so years. It struck me then, that we as a Christian country (irrespective of your views and faith) have a view of west and east. But in Jerusalem, west meets east. ALL the major faiths in the world emanate from this point (OK there's a couple that don't). It’s the epicentre of religion as we know it, and as we know religions which we war against, Jesus is of course a prophet, King David and the Jews originate from old Jerusalem (City of David). – A thought of that magnitude, shakes the foundations of your life.
We then walked Via Della Rosa, and to the church of the holy sepulchre. A small mound inside a huge church on the hillside (Golgotha), which also encompasses an ancient cemetery. Here,, 2000 years ago, Jesus was crucified for his beliefs.
Imagine, all those teachings, and then standing in the places – you realize, It’s not a book at all. It’s real. – I’m 100% certain, that the current faiths of the world are truly based on happenings in that country 2000 years ago. We in the east and west are worshipping the happenings in our own ways, and the overwhelming majority of practising religions just don’t realize it.
I went and overlooked Bethlehem, under Arab control I wasn’t allowed in, or at least it wasn’t safe for my guide and I to enter. We had late lunch at a Kibbutz on a nearby hillside, before visiting the Holocaust museum, and there was another discovery for me. My uncle Tom (or rather my Grandmothers Brother) served In the Army, and escaped from a POW camp in Germany. We have his postcards. We also have one from Cyprus in the late 40’s, and he’s taken a photo and there's barbed wire all around a compound.
In the museum, we were shown the prison camps the British set up in Cyprus when they gathered all the Jews from Europe and sent them to their own state! Yes that right. All those people who lived and worked in Europe, and were imprisoned by the Nazis, where then rounded up by the allies, and put in a prison camp, before being taken by ship and dumped in Palestine and given their own territory! – And my Nans brother was one of the guards. That's adding insult to injury for you.
Oh and the one other chap on the trip, was ‘staying in a hotel down the road from me’ – never took his coat off, despite the warmth, flitted around the museum like he’d seen it a hundred times before and afterwards, said he was visiting a friend in a nearby town. – He was and Agent and an armed guard, I could see straight through it!
Friday, 19 November 2010
Lake District weekend May 1977
So times move on. It's May 1977. If you were an Abba fan, then you probably had a copy of 'Knowing me knowing you' - I wasn't, so I didn't. Still had no moped, no girlfriend. End of school was in sight and the Salad day's were about to end.. But one last flourish before the shock of adulthood was in order.
A trip to the Lake District was in the offing, and my local youth club had booked a mini-bus, I found myself adding my name to the travel list along with buddies Ian and Mike so one Friday in May 1977 we find ourselves trundling up the M6 toward Keswick. A weekend with teenage friends, without the shackles of adults seemed appealing. OK, there were the youth workers, but they had an air of liberalism about them that suggested we could make the weekend interesting.
Arriving at the youth Hostel just north of Grasmere, we discovered a malevolent looking stone building miles from anywhere. 'Dunmail Rise' it was called. We were told it had been an isolation hospital, and that the large stone shelves adjacent to the kitchen had been the slabs on which the bodies were laid. I've no idea if it were true, but the story kept a large group of teenagers from wandering around at night!
Having dropped the bags upstairs, I trogged into the front room of the house, and in my 'I'm not interested in Sue any more' mode, set about chatting up one of the girls from the youth Club, who I'll call Carol, as I think that's what her name was. Now I wasn't very good at this at all, but somehow the being away from home thing caused a rush of blood to the head, and I was far more forward than I ever had been before, or indeed should have been at all. The basis of the conversation was along the lines that there was plenty of room in my sleeping bag if it got cold (Ignoring the other 10 people sleeping in the room of course). Carols response was something along the lines of f*ck off - and to be honest, looking back I don't hold it against her.
My Mate (Mike) and I, went outside and surveyed the mountain above the Hostel, gazing at the imposing fellside, we hatched a plan to walk to the ridge above in the remaining daylight, so we toiled up to the ridge, only to see another ridge, and again we went on. Eventually we arrived on the edge of that ridge, only to see the summit some way off. I wasn't overly keen on the light level, and showed some common sense by suggesting we turn back down the hill. But Mike said no, and struck forward by himself. I committed the cardinal sin of turning back and leaving him. By the time I got down the hill it was dark, and as you will know if you've ever been in the countryside in the darkness, its properly dark! Mikes absence caused consternation amongst the rest of the crew, and once again I displayed how sensible I was by telling the youth leader how I was against the plan, and the risks involved being on the mountain without the correct equipment. Except they weren't interested in how sensible I was, just the welfare of somebody who clearly wasn't sensible.
With no mobile phones, and no phone in the lodge, somebody would have to report him missing by driving to the nearest town if he didn't arrive back soon..We waited. At about 10.30Pm, the door burst open, and Mike came in. Cold, bedraggled and telling tales about how he made it to the top AND escaped from the Wolves (I may have made that up, but it was some bollocks or other) - Everybody was his friend, and wanting to hug him and tell him how glad they were that he was safe. including Carol. What on earth? - When I'm idiotic I get berated as the idiot I purport to be. - When somebody else is idiotic, everybody's concerned about him and he's a hero.. Work that out.
To this day I doubt he made it up there and back in the time available, but short of going up there and checking if he put a flag on top I shall never be able to prove it.
That night in the dormitory, we had been joined by a small group of teenagers from another town, and as we lay in the dark chatting, they intervened in our conversation and attempted to intimidate us. Clearly they were rough lads and it took all my verbal skills to joust with them and not get a beating. The same didn't work for another of the lads whose attempt at a brush off involved him being threatened with a severe kicking. He shut up of course, humiliated in front of us all, while I had acquired some form of respect from the lads across the room. So I slept that with some of the battered self confidence restored. There was some good banter that night, and I am reminded about the nautical story told about the the 'Ship tossing on the sea - while the crew did likewise down below' - and of course the inevitable ghost story involving a severed hand of a dead murderer that crawls around at night throttling teenagers in their sleeping bags. - I always told that one.....
Saturday brought a trip into Keswick, and left to our own devices, we did what normal teenagers do, and found an off-license that would serve us alcohol illegally. So there's 3 of us and a couple of bottles of cider, all that beautiful countryside, and we're throwing up in the park. Philistines!
Have you ever had point in life, where you have the most fleeting glimpse of something beautiful? Something that isn't quite within your grasp, something that you see once and never again? well that was my Saturday night in May 1977. In an old hall, with music playing she walked into my life and I have the picture of her stored away, her red and black striped T-Shirt that hair, those eyes!
With another youth group, she danced played pool, drank pop and then left. And whenever I hear Boz Scaggs 'Lido Shuffle', wherever I am, my mind drifts to Castlerigg Manor and the girl from Carlisle. God bless you, wherever you may be.
It's not all plain sailing for the rest of the weekend - I arrived back in Lancashire suffering from food poisoning and projectile vomiting with the most vile stomach cramps. I was ill for days. - Must have been the bodies in the kitchen hey?
A trip to the Lake District was in the offing, and my local youth club had booked a mini-bus, I found myself adding my name to the travel list along with buddies Ian and Mike so one Friday in May 1977 we find ourselves trundling up the M6 toward Keswick. A weekend with teenage friends, without the shackles of adults seemed appealing. OK, there were the youth workers, but they had an air of liberalism about them that suggested we could make the weekend interesting.
Arriving at the youth Hostel just north of Grasmere, we discovered a malevolent looking stone building miles from anywhere. 'Dunmail Rise' it was called. We were told it had been an isolation hospital, and that the large stone shelves adjacent to the kitchen had been the slabs on which the bodies were laid. I've no idea if it were true, but the story kept a large group of teenagers from wandering around at night!
Having dropped the bags upstairs, I trogged into the front room of the house, and in my 'I'm not interested in Sue any more' mode, set about chatting up one of the girls from the youth Club, who I'll call Carol, as I think that's what her name was. Now I wasn't very good at this at all, but somehow the being away from home thing caused a rush of blood to the head, and I was far more forward than I ever had been before, or indeed should have been at all. The basis of the conversation was along the lines that there was plenty of room in my sleeping bag if it got cold (Ignoring the other 10 people sleeping in the room of course). Carols response was something along the lines of f*ck off - and to be honest, looking back I don't hold it against her.
My Mate (Mike) and I, went outside and surveyed the mountain above the Hostel, gazing at the imposing fellside, we hatched a plan to walk to the ridge above in the remaining daylight, so we toiled up to the ridge, only to see another ridge, and again we went on. Eventually we arrived on the edge of that ridge, only to see the summit some way off. I wasn't overly keen on the light level, and showed some common sense by suggesting we turn back down the hill. But Mike said no, and struck forward by himself. I committed the cardinal sin of turning back and leaving him. By the time I got down the hill it was dark, and as you will know if you've ever been in the countryside in the darkness, its properly dark! Mikes absence caused consternation amongst the rest of the crew, and once again I displayed how sensible I was by telling the youth leader how I was against the plan, and the risks involved being on the mountain without the correct equipment. Except they weren't interested in how sensible I was, just the welfare of somebody who clearly wasn't sensible.
With no mobile phones, and no phone in the lodge, somebody would have to report him missing by driving to the nearest town if he didn't arrive back soon..We waited. At about 10.30Pm, the door burst open, and Mike came in. Cold, bedraggled and telling tales about how he made it to the top AND escaped from the Wolves (I may have made that up, but it was some bollocks or other) - Everybody was his friend, and wanting to hug him and tell him how glad they were that he was safe. including Carol. What on earth? - When I'm idiotic I get berated as the idiot I purport to be. - When somebody else is idiotic, everybody's concerned about him and he's a hero.. Work that out.
To this day I doubt he made it up there and back in the time available, but short of going up there and checking if he put a flag on top I shall never be able to prove it.
That night in the dormitory, we had been joined by a small group of teenagers from another town, and as we lay in the dark chatting, they intervened in our conversation and attempted to intimidate us. Clearly they were rough lads and it took all my verbal skills to joust with them and not get a beating. The same didn't work for another of the lads whose attempt at a brush off involved him being threatened with a severe kicking. He shut up of course, humiliated in front of us all, while I had acquired some form of respect from the lads across the room. So I slept that with some of the battered self confidence restored. There was some good banter that night, and I am reminded about the nautical story told about the the 'Ship tossing on the sea - while the crew did likewise down below' - and of course the inevitable ghost story involving a severed hand of a dead murderer that crawls around at night throttling teenagers in their sleeping bags. - I always told that one.....
Saturday brought a trip into Keswick, and left to our own devices, we did what normal teenagers do, and found an off-license that would serve us alcohol illegally. So there's 3 of us and a couple of bottles of cider, all that beautiful countryside, and we're throwing up in the park. Philistines!
Have you ever had point in life, where you have the most fleeting glimpse of something beautiful? Something that isn't quite within your grasp, something that you see once and never again? well that was my Saturday night in May 1977. In an old hall, with music playing she walked into my life and I have the picture of her stored away, her red and black striped T-Shirt that hair, those eyes!
With another youth group, she danced played pool, drank pop and then left. And whenever I hear Boz Scaggs 'Lido Shuffle', wherever I am, my mind drifts to Castlerigg Manor and the girl from Carlisle. God bless you, wherever you may be.
It's not all plain sailing for the rest of the weekend - I arrived back in Lancashire suffering from food poisoning and projectile vomiting with the most vile stomach cramps. I was ill for days. - Must have been the bodies in the kitchen hey?
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
A Teenage Opera - Part 1
You know, I've been think about this for a while. 'All the things that I've done'. Denied the obvious song-writing opportunity by Brandon Flowers, I thought I'd place it in a blog.
Who am I? An ordinary Joe, who kicked out an ordinary life in extraordinary times.. From outside toilets to man on the moon. Through supersonic flight, the advent of the personal computer and the development of personal communications to a level where everything about yourself is shared in a microscopic way.
But is it?
Yes, sure if I want to tell you what I've just eaten then there's an 'App for that' - But there's no 'App' to tell people what we've seen, what we've digested and the memories we've created. When this body shuts down, as it surely will, either through the ravages of time or outside intervention, (for all I know that will happen tonight or tomorrow) then 'all the things that I've done' will be gone. I'll be a name on the BMD register. A face in a photo unrecognised after a couple of generations.So that's why the written word still has a place, and that's why I'm going to write it down.
Good Times Eagerly Got? Yes that's the title, for many reasons - For sure, there were bad times, but with the passage of time, they just become times. Bad no longer applies, they become the very fibre of who we are and how we conduct ourselves. It wont be in Chronological order, just as it comes So here, in all its crappy detail is part one.
Who am I? An ordinary Joe, who kicked out an ordinary life in extraordinary times.. From outside toilets to man on the moon. Through supersonic flight, the advent of the personal computer and the development of personal communications to a level where everything about yourself is shared in a microscopic way.
But is it?
Yes, sure if I want to tell you what I've just eaten then there's an 'App for that' - But there's no 'App' to tell people what we've seen, what we've digested and the memories we've created. When this body shuts down, as it surely will, either through the ravages of time or outside intervention, (for all I know that will happen tonight or tomorrow) then 'all the things that I've done' will be gone. I'll be a name on the BMD register. A face in a photo unrecognised after a couple of generations.So that's why the written word still has a place, and that's why I'm going to write it down.
Good Times Eagerly Got? Yes that's the title, for many reasons - For sure, there were bad times, but with the passage of time, they just become times. Bad no longer applies, they become the very fibre of who we are and how we conduct ourselves. It wont be in Chronological order, just as it comes So here, in all its crappy detail is part one.
THE MOPED
December 1976. James Hunt is F1 world Champion, Barry Sheene is World 500cc champion. Showaddywaddy go to number 1 with 'Under the moon of love'.
When you're 16, there's only one thing with Kudos, and that’s a Sports Moped.
Back in '72 The government got clever and restricted 16's to 50cc with pedals. The manufacturers got even smarter and built motorcycles with pedals and 50mph performance. The kids went wild. They killed themselves by their hundreds and in '77 the government pulled the plug and restricted them to 30mph by law. But I digress... It’s now '76 and there’s only one place to be. Dicing down the bypass with your mates to see if a Fizzy is faster than an AP50.
So I've spent £10 on a Puch maxi which needed some TLC, and when asked by my parents what I wanted for my 16th Birthday I said.... The Puch putting 'on the road' - It wasn't a Sports moped of course, but it had an engine and two wheels.So that was heading in the right direction.
Each week, I looked in the garage to see the Puch languishing under a blanket, and each week got closer to that birthday. And each week there was no progress. There was only one conclusion - They'd bought me a sports moped!
Winter arrived early that year, and on the Saturday, I arose greeted by a light covering of snow and the air was crisp. My parents had gone to work, leaving no sign that it was my 16th -I checked the garage, nothing had changed and went out to my Nans where I spent the day. Returning home that evening, the Snow crunched underfoot and darkness had fallen as I made my way down the Greenhill and along Kiln lane, my mind was in overdrive. They knew what I wanted. A Suzuki AP50 - In Red. Just like Sheene's... Ok, nothing like Sheene's, but the imagination ran riot! The poster was on my wall. the brochure was by my bed, these thoughts running through my head,. I was almost shaking with excitement as I walked. - I passed Susan's house, and was distracted by the inviting glow of the lights through the curtains. They exuded warmth and my mind drifted to picture the scene indoors - I wondered what it would be like to feel her smooth flesh now I could legally do so. To kiss her beautiful lips. But that relied on her consent, and that was probably weeks away. if not Months. If not years. - If Ever.
'Chance' was the name of the house in which she lived. A simple word that taunted me every day. - Go on son. Take a chance. Frozen by fear, I never did. But she will crop up more than once on this blog. - I digress again.
'Chance' was the name of the house in which she lived. A simple word that taunted me every day. - Go on son. Take a chance. Frozen by fear, I never did. But she will crop up more than once on this blog. - I digress again.
The family ware waiting as I walked up the long path to the house. My Brother gave me a Mud Album. My Mother and Father stood smiling in the lounge. My father said 'happy Birthday son... Close your eyes and hold out your hand'
My heart pounded... It’s a key to the moped!!!!
Into my hand they placed a small gift wrapped box. My eyes became the size of saucers, and my hands shook as I tore at the paper, and there it was, layed before me - My 16th birthday present.
A f*cking Travel alarm clock.
"You'll never be late for your paper round again" said my mother, as I mentally surfed a Tsunami of disappointment.. The following morning, I went down to the garage, took a hammer out of my dad’s toolbox, and battered the forlorn Puch to peices.
The c*nts never even noticed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)