NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL REGENERATION...

Well, I said I'd do this post when I found the relevant photos, and after much searching - which has taken me months (if not years) - I've finally tracked them down.  True to form, they were in completely different places, and I had to go through hundreds, if not thousands, of pics in order to find them.  That's even harder than it sounds, because my photo wallets are scattered all around the house in whatever space I can fit them.  Anyway, the fact that I'd intended to do this post over on the now defunct Crivens! won't hold me back.  Isn't it lucky for you that I've got another blog, eh?  (H'mm, gone kinda quiet all of a sudden.)

Of course, there's always the possibility that you'll think the result of my hunt wasn't worth the effort, but I'll take my chances.  The above photo was snapped by me around 1986, and shows the remains of a tree that had taken a pounding.  I think it was struck by lightning, and it's a shame I don't have a photo of the tree before its 'accident' as it was quite an impressive looking item.  (Could be I do have a pic somewhere, but if so, I've forgotten ever taking it, never mind where it might be if I did.)

Anyway, I took the photo below sometime around the early or mid-'90s, and it shows the tree in its 'recovery stage'.  It's not exactly as it was before it endured a kicking, but I thought it was a goner back then, so it was nice to see that it had survived - and thrived.  There's a moral in there somewhere, eh?  Let's just hope that council workies haven't chopped it down after it making such a magnificent comeback.  I must take a walk along to the area and see if it's still there.  I'll let you know.  (Update: Yup, it's still standing.)

ONE BOY & HIS DOG (AND A CAKE TOPPER)...

THE OPTIMIST

One of the items I remember from my childhood right up to my late teens (at least) was a biscuit tin that was kept in a cupboard (or larder) in four of our houses.  I don't recall it ever having biscuits - it was used for storing screws, nails, clips, curtain hoops, and all sorts of odds-and-ends that had no other place for them to go.  One day it just disappeared, though I'd have been unaware of its absence until some time after the fact.  I've thought about it often over the years, and, with the passage of time, slightly misremembered the illustration on the lid.  I recalled it as a TOM SAWYER-type boy (wearing a straw hat) on a raft, with a little Scottie dog, but it was actually a wash-tub, as I discovered when I saw a picture of the tin on PINTEREST recently.  'Twas good to see it again - and in the very same house I was living in when I last laid eyes on it.

In a previous post on my other blog, I showed you a photo of a chalk snowman (or Eskimo) the original of which had been one of our Christmas decorations ever since I'd been a kid.  The first one got damaged at some point, and was relegated to the biscuit tin which, at that time, was stored in our larder.  They may well have been consigned to oblivion on the same day, but I managed to obtain a replacement for 'Chalky' around 30 years ago, and he's adorned the base of the Christmas tree ever since.  I thought I'd show that photo again, and reunite both of them (or their images at least) just for old times' sake.  I guess I'm just a great, big, silly, sentimental old Hector.

Any Criv-ites ever have this tin?  It contained biscuits by McVITIE & PRICE, and was available circa 1960 onwards.  I managed to track one down and bought it, and the first thing I did was place it in a wall cupboard which now occupies the upper space of where the larder once was.  I thought it fitting to put it in pretty much the same spot I'd last seen the original, as it suggested to my mind a continuity and resumption of how things were in the 1970s.  It must be around 40 years since the first tin 'disappeared', yet seeing its replacement banished the passage of time in an instant and immediately returned me to back then, allowing me to indulge in the illusion that I'm 40 years younger than I am.

Sad?  Maybe.  Fulfilling?  Definitely.           

HEY, MUM...IT'S THE DUSTBIN MEN!

Not exactly the same as '60s bins, but similar

Remember when exterior refuse bins (or dustbins as they were called) were made of metal, and the racket the bin men (who weren't made of metal) would make when uplifting them every week?  Then, sometime around 1969 or '70 (I think - anyone know for sure?), metal bins were replaced with double-layered brown paper bag ones, which sat behind a curved wire-mesh frame.  The bag was held in place to the wall by a metal attachment, with a lid, which lifted to drop household refuse into.  At some point (late '70s, early '80s perhaps) the paper bags were replaced with black plastic bags, and nowadays it's wheelie bins into which we drop our household waste.  The various councils of our fair land have even managed to con householders into taking the bins out for the bin men to collect, so we're doing part of their job for them.  No doubt a few jobs were lost in the process, but that's 'progress' so they claim.

At one time, only one bin was needed per house, now it's four - five counting the internal food waste bin - and once again, we have to do part of the job on the various councils' behalf.  I have a plastic bag in the kitchen into which all the rubbish is dumped - I then have to stand outside for several minutes when time comes to empty it, because I have to sift through it in order to put the 'correct' waste into the appropriate bins.  What annoys me though, is the fact that, apparently, despite our efforts, only a small percentage of that waste is actually recycled - the rest is buried in landfill sites or incinerated.  So much for me freezing my @ss of in Caledonia's inclement weather, doing my bit for the environment when the council isn't fulfilling their part of the process.

Anyone else miss the old 'tin' (or whatever they were) bins of the olden days (which only seems like yesterday to me), or do you prefer the unsightly spectacle of numerous plastic wheelie bins parked outside your house?  If so (and even if not), feel free to leave a comment if you so desire.

A FANTASMAGORICAL MACHINE...

I never owned a CORGI TOYS CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG when I was a kid, but a relative had one so I almost feel like I did.  (Which is like that old joke of nearly winning the Lottery recently because the guy next door won.)  In fact, I never got to see the movie until it was on TV in the mid or late '70s, but I must've enjoyed it 'cos I bought the soundtrack album not too long after.  Around 1991, Corgi reissued the car as a collectors' piece (and priced accordingly) and I raided the piggy bank to buy it, with wooden plinth, replica box and all.  Some time later, I managed to acquire a 1968 original and when I compared the two, I noticed that the figures in the reissued version were ever-so-slightly different, as was the car dashboard.  A Corgi employee later confirmed to me that these parts had to be re-created from scratch because they couldn't find the pieces from the original moulds for them.  (I believe the rest of the car was from original moulds though.)

Some years back, Corgi reissued their 'Corgi Juniors' version of the car (which was a rebranded HUSKY model made by Corgi and, I believe, originally sold only in WOOLWORTH's) and I bought one.  Sadly, in a cost cutting exercise, the figures weren't included, which, to my way of thinking, was a huge mistake.  The car looks better with the figures, and the better the car looks, the more likely it is to sell in larger numbers.  What's the point of keeping the price lower if the product is less likely to sell because it doesn't look as good as it once did?  Anyway, I recently managed to buy original Husky/Corgi Jr. figures from eBay and added them to the car, improving its appearance by at least 100%.  Don't believe me?  Take a look at the photos I took afterwards and see for yourselves.

I probably will stump up for an original Husky model one day, but for the moment, this combi-version will suffice.  'Tis a thing of beauty, but I'm debating within myself as to whether I should paint the wings so that the car has the proper complement of colours.  What do you think, fellow Mellows, should I paint them or leave them as they are?  Decisions, decisions.  As I said, I didn't have this car as a kid (either version), but because I was aware of it, merely looking at this great wee toy reminds me of the '60s and the joys of childhood.  I was going to end this post by saying I wish I was a boy again, but the truth of the matter is, I've never really grown up.  And guess what?  I wouldn't have it any other way.

TEENAGE TALES: HOSPITAL HIJINKS...

The long-vanished hospital shop of my childhood, teenage years
and young adulthood.  Demolished sometime back in the '90s

I've a nagging suspicion that I may've told this tale before.  Or perhaps I intended to tell it but then forgot.  Either way, I can't find it on the blog or remember which of these two possibilities is the right one, so I may as well tell it now - or again - whichever is the case.

When I was a teenager, me and my pals were quite adventurous in our, er, adventures.  We explored places we had no right to be, convinced in our fevered imaginations that we were agents of U.N.C.L.E., or The Three Investigators, or 007 - or any fictional characters with whom one associates 'living on the edge'.

We explored building sites, office blocks, the local Civic Centre - before, during and after working hours.  We investigated hotels, restaurants, churches - even the local hospital and surrounding out-buildings. You name it, any place we shouldn't have been, we were all over it like a rash.  For we were - The Adventurers! (Seriously, that's what we called ourselves.  Or maybe it was just what I called ourselves and the others merely humoured me, but hey - that still counts in my book.)

Let's just pause for a moment while I savour the thrill of what I deludedly (but willingly) like to believe was my exciting everyday life as a teenager, but (sadly) know I'm likely romanticising just a bit.  But we had our moments, and one such moment was this.

Sometimes there were three of us, but on this particular evening, there were only two - my good self and a friend who, for the purpose of this tale, we'll call Adam Cowie.  We'd just been into the local hospital shop so that I could check to see if it had any U.S. comics or black and white mags that, for some reason, weren't regularly or readily available from other newsagents.

There used to be more trees here, but they were felled to make
way for car parking areas.  Again, none of this exists today

The shop had nothing to offer, alas, so we then decided to investigate a ground-level out-building partially concealed by a wooded area.  It was one of several annexes once used as wards (I think), though at the time of this tale, used mainly for storing medical supplies and maybe also by administration staff.  We gained entry through the door, which yielded (undamaged) under the slightest pressure from our inquisitive selves.

We wandered the corridor, exploring the various rooms, and I happened to notice that all the windows were tightly secured with string, tied around the handles to prevent them from being opened.  My pal had just examined a bag containing a variety of medical implements and put it down again, when we were suddenly aware of what sounded like soft, slow footsteps, stealthily making their way along the corridor.

Discovery meant trouble, for who'd ever believe we were merely indulging our over-developed sense of curiosity by doing a bit of exploring without criminal intent?  My friend (as usual) sh*t a brick, but I was made of cooler stuff.  I'd noticed a pair of small surgical scissors in the bag my pal had been looking at, so I extracted them and quietly cut the string around the handle, replaced the scissors, then we both made a rapid escape through the open window frame and vanished in a cloud of dust over the horizon to freedom.

Phew!  It had been a near miss, but once again we had evaded capture by the combined agents of S.M.E.R.S.H., S.P.E.C.T.R.E., T.H.R.U.S.H., and HYDRA, and were free to fight yet another day.  Well, that's how it seemed to my fertile imagination, but then again, I always was a bit of a nutter.

Ah, those were the days.
  

DID YOU EVER RIP A VAN AND THEN DO A WINKLE?

Have you ever been so 'lost in the moment' that you've been completely oblivious to what was happening around you?  I suppose it may've happened more than once in my own life, but I can only recall the one specific instance which I'm now about to relate to you.

The stage and a glimpse of the classroom behind it

Return with me now to the mid-1960s, to behind the heavy stage curtains of my primary school's gym and dinner hall.  This was, in effect, a classroom, in which I remember being instructed in arithmetic, though other subjects were also taught.

The desks faced the wall, which once had a blackboard.
The lectern would've been out on the stage in my day

Many years later, long after I'd left school altogether, the large windows which allowed me to gaze out at the sky, lost in daydreams, were covered over.  However, in my time, pupils could still watch the chalk dust floating in the rays of the sun which streamed through the panes on sunny summer afternoons and caught us in their spell.

The wall on the right once had more windows, which were blocked
off or removed sometime in the 1990s or early 2000s

On this particular day, I was reading RIP VAN WINKLE by WASHINGTON IRVING, though it may've been a simplified, abridged version designed for younger readers of the age I then was.  (Then again, it may not.)  I remember finishing the tale, raising my head from the book - and being amazed to find the classroom empty.  Vacant desks met my bewildered stare to the front and sides of me, but when I turned around, there were my classmates and teacher waiting at the door to see how long it would take me to realize that the bell had gone and the lesson was over.

This is a photo from around '86 or '88 of part of the exterior of the
stage classroom.  As you can see, it had a lot of big windows

I gaped at them in embarrassed silence, then gathered my stuff together and joined them, filing out to another class or playtime break.  I was amazed that my attention could be engaged to the extent of being unaware of what was going on around me, and that's probably why I've never forgotten the occasion.  I sometimes wonder if I'd dimly heard the bell, but then become so engrossed at that point so as to immediately forget it, or it had completely failed to register on my consciousness. Who can say?

The wider of the two doors is the one into and out of the room.  The teacher was standing
at the door, with the pupils to the right of it, watching me with much amusement

Anyway, that little reminiscence permits me the opportunity of presenting some nice art by ARTHUR RACKHAM, and a few photos of my old school (which is now demolished), the better to indulge my wallowing in nostalgia.  It also prompts me to ask the question of whether you've ever become so 'wrapped up' in a book or comic as to forget everything and everyone around you?  If so, spill the beans! We're all dying to know the details.

Incidentally, I've just re-read the story and much enjoyed it.  You could do worse than give it a read yourself, so rush out and buy a copy at the earliest opportunity.

SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS - PART FIFTEEN: THE LITTLE DRUMMOND BOY...

Me and David in primary school in 1967, though the
following tale happened in secondary circa '72/'73

It was in one of the annexed huts at the far end of the school one day that the following event occurred.  The subject was music and this particular hut was used as the 'music hut' on a permanent basis.  As we took our seats, the teacher decided to 'take' the register, and began calling out each pupil's name and ticking them off in turn upon receipt of a "here" in response to the announced appellation.

Jimmy Riddle - "here".  Billy Bigballs - "here".  Johnny Jumpstart - "here".  And so it went, until she got to DAVID DRUMMOND's name.  Now, I should mention that David was a quiet, studious boy, who never got into any kind of trouble as far as I was aware.  The teacher must have known this, so her reaction to what happened next was completely unjustified in regard to poor Davey.

When she called his name - David Drummond - David replied "here", but he wasn't the only pupil to do so.  As his "here" ended, suddenly another one sounded from somewhere in the room - "here" - and then another - and another - until it was echoing all around the class.  It went like this - David Drummond - "here", "here", "here", "here", "here", "here" - about a dozen or more times from various points in the room in a 'living stereo surround-sound' effect that was truly impressive.

Teacher was incandescent with rage. "Drummond - you're the ringleader - get out here now!"  Bewildered, Davey trudged out to her desk, whereupon, if I recall correctly, she belted him with the tawse and sent him back to his seat in abject shame for something he hadn't done.  Naturally, we felt bad for him - his fate was utterly undeserved - but it'd been funny to hear the word "here" bounce around the room and to see the teacher take an apoplectic fit over it, even if she had belted an innocent boy.

I thought the result of each individual "here" in close succession to one another sounded extremely musical - very King's Singers in effect, so I'm not sure why Teacher reacted in the way she did.  You'd think she'd have been proud of our daring initiative in forming a class 'band' - even if it was only for a short, one-off performance.

Teachers, eh?!  I just hope David can look back and laugh about it now.  It was a classic moment that deserves to be remembered, though I guess you had to actually be there to appreciate it in the same way that I do.  (Which I probably wouldn't had I been the one belted.)

SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT...

Illustration by MICHAEL FOREMAN

All children, except one, grow up.  They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this.  One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother.  I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this forever!"  This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up.  You always know after you are two.  Two is the beginning of the end.

So wrote author J. M. BARRIE in the opening paragraph of PETER PAN.  And it's true; I know because I had a similar experience when I was three or four years old.  My mother had been outlining my future to me one day, probably preparing me for when I'd be starting primary school.  "And what happens then?" I asked, curious about what lay before me.  There then followed a description of the different stages of my life to which I could 'look forward', interspersed at each pause with "And what happens then?" from myself.  Eventually, having worked through my life from primary school to adulthood, she rested from her labours, thinking her duty done.

"And what happens then?" I again enquired, tenacious infant that I was.  She thought for a moment before replying  "Then you grow old."  The inevitable "And what happens then?" from me.  "Then you die," she said, simply.  I had no concept of death, so persisted.  "And what happens then?"  I was like a broken record, but probably more grating.  "Nothing happens then - when you're dead, you're dead," she said, matter-of-factly. 

(I should perhaps here mention that my mother's response was a surprising one, given her own beliefs.  She went to church and sent me and my brother to Sunday school, and did, in fact, subscribe to the concept of the afterlife, though probably more from a superstitious point of view than from an informed one.  I can only assume that she regarded such an idea beyond my young powers of comprehension, and was speaking merely from the physical perspective.)

This greatly disturbed me, and when I was put to bed that evening, I couldn't sleep.  I eventually made my way downstairs, repeating "I don't want to die, I don't want to die!" over and over again.  It's no exaggeration to say that the notion of total oblivion had traumatised me.  My parents did their best to console me, saying that death was a long way off and that I shouldn't be concerned with it.  I eventually calmed down, but could never quite escape the dark shadow of the fate that loomed ahead of me.  I decided there and then that if growing up meant growing old, and growing old meant dying, then I would simply never grow up!  I'd be a child forever. I stated aloud my determination and was then put back to bed, where sleep eventually claimed me.

Henceforth, whenever any friends of my parents would ask me (as friends of parents inevitably will) what I was going to be when I grew up, before I could even answer, my parents would respond with "He's not going to grow up, he's going to be just like Peter Pan!"  (This happened on more than one occasion.)  It was therefore surprising when I picked up J. M. Barrie's book in my thirties to find a similar experience to my own recounted in its opening pages.  How amazing is that?  A story about a boy with whom I'd been compared from an early age, and the very first paragraph resonates immediately.  Curiously, like WALT DISNEY's version of the character (though it's not in the book), I've never been able to click my fingers.

It's rather apt, then, that in my teenage years, my nickname became 'Kid', which I've been called ever since.  (The story behind that can be found here.)  Not everyone who knew me was aware of the appellation though, only a particular group of friends and acquaintances (and their families) who lived in my neighbourhood.  When I started freelancing for IPC's 2000 A.D. in 1985, I used it in the credit boxes because it was easier to fit in the allocated space.

"Two is the beginning of the end."  However, I refuse to grow old.  I'm going to be a "boy eternal" (as SHAKESPEARE put it) and try my best to retain what KENNETH GRAHAME calls "the spirit of youth" within me.  In the end, of course, it may not stave off expiration, but life is a hell of a lot more fun along the way.

  

CHILDHOOD CAPERS - CHAPTER FOUR: CHEEKY & JOEY...

Have you ever met someone and become friends, only to learn much later that, when younger, they lived near to you or even attended the same school in a previous neighbourhood?  If you're anything like me (I'd imagine that not many people are), you can't help but wonder if your paths might've crossed before without either of you knowing or remembering.  Y'know, like standing in the same queue in a local shop, or in the same bus shelter or whatever.  So, with that in mind, "I wanna tell you a story."

(Cue wavy lines as we indulge in a flashback.) My father once had a pair of budgies, Cheeky and Joey.  For some unstated reason, he eventually decided to part with them, though I suspect it may've been because he'd read an article saying that budgies carry diseases and so decided it was better to be safe than sorry.  I remember as I was leaving for primary school one day, my parents saying:  "You'd better say goodbye to the budgies - they won't be here when you get back."

I simply shrugged, but on reaching the back gate I was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of sadness and hurried back in to bid Cheeky and Joey au revoir.  Cut to many, many years later, and me and my pal Moonmando (whom you've seen comment on my other blog) were in that former neighbourhood and I pointed out my old house to him.  You can imagine my astonishment when he informed me that he and one of his brothers had once collected a pair of budgies in a cage from that very house.

I didn't meet Moony 'til around 2nd or 3rd year in secondary school, so to discover he'd actually been in my (by then) former house without me knowing was quite a surprise.  What's more, his brother had been in my class at primary school at some stage, though I never knew him then, or even remembered him.  In fact, it wasn't until I was looking at an old school photo (which you can see here) in adulthood that I recognised his brother - as, by this time, I had known them both for quite a number of years.  (Though learning they'd both once been in my old residence to collect our budgies came later.)

What's more, the realisation that I'd later visited their house many times without ever knowing it was the very domicile to which Cheeky and Joey had 'retired', was likewise a source of amazement to me.  This was a connection of which we'd all been previously unaware.  It goes without saying that Moony isn't anywhere near as impressed with this incident as I am (or at all in fact), but to me, it's one of those 'Astounding Tales' that makes life so interesting. (Then again, I always was easily impressed.)

So, anything like that ever happen to you?  Do tell!

PART FOURTEEN OF SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS: OVER THE HILL, BUT NOT QUITE OVER 'THE DALE'...

Nah, she wasn't this hot - almost

Her name was Miss Dale, and she was seriously sexy.  Small, blonde (update: nope - redhead actually, the ol' memory was playing tricks), early 20s, she usually wore a blue denim mini-skirt and also indulged in some serious sadism that too many teachers of the period were prone to.  She had a nasty habit of punching your arm several times to emphasise whatever point she was making, and I certainly wasn't the only kid who suffered from a bruised upper limb in her class. Where did such rage come from?

One day, she decided to test our spelling by reading out words to the class, so that we could then write them in our jotters to be marked by her diminutive, angry self.  One of the words she uttered was 'yawn', which, due to my familiarity with the Shakespearean-style of speech in MARVEL's THOR, I took to be 'yon' and thus wrote it in my jotter accordingly.  She then collected our efforts and sat at her desk to evaluate them, while we busied ourselves with something else.

After a while, she called me out to her desk and berated me for seemingly misspelling the word, then belted me with the tawse - solely for what she considered my lack of spelling ability, not because I was cheeky or anything.  50-odd years later, I now know just what an utterly inept teacher she was not to have considered the possibility that I'd been thinking of another, perfectly legitimate, phonetically similar word to the one she'd had in mind.

Her response should surely have been: "There are two words pronounced that way, define the one you mean."  Then it would've been a simple case of me explaining exactly what word I'd had in mind, and her then asking me to spell the other, the one she was looking for.  The fact was, I'd spelt the word properly, it was just a different word to the one she'd been thinking of.  And yet that glaringly obvious possibility never occurred to her.  What a thicko.

I did learn a few valuable lessons that day though.  Firstly, that teachers weren't always right; secondly, that Miss Dale, though sexy, was a bitch - and thirdly, there's no way clearly hormonal people should ever be tasked with imparting knowledge to any group of children, when their main method of teaching seems to consist of punching and belting them until they 'learn' things.

This was primary school, mind, so we're not talking about teachers having to deal with surly and unruly teenagers - we're talking children of only 8 or 9 years old. What the hell were educationalists thinking of back then?  As I've said before, kids today don't have a clue about just how lucky they are compared to ourselves.

As for Miss Dale?  I have absolutely no recollection of ever seeing her again after I left primary.  Maybe she left before I did.  However, it would be nice if she learned how to manage her anger issues and went on to become, at the very least, a competent (and kinder) teacher. The alternative simply doesn't bear thinking about.

TWO, FOUR, SIX, EIGHT - WITH WHAT DO YOU ASSOCIATE...?

'Association' is a subject I often ponder, on account of being fascinated with what it is that causes us to associate one thing with another.  Surely that's simple to understand, you say.  Our initial impressions are usually the strongest, so when we experience something for the very first time - a place or product for example - we'll associate it with who we were with on the day (and vice versa) or/and some other element relating to it.

That's broadly true, but perhaps there can be exceptions.  For example, my father once owned a NOBEL 200 car.  We lived in one house when he got it, but moved to another house not too long after, and he owned the car for far longer in the latter house than the former.  I therefore have more memories associated with the second, but my initial memories of the car are from the first, so perhaps they should be more prominent - and sometimes they are. 

However, that could be because the only photos of the car are from the former house, so I simply associate it with there in a sort of 'default' way.  Until, that is, the memories from the subsequent house reassert themselves and I'm reminded that I associate the Nobel with there at least as much (if not even more so) than its predecessor.  However, because of those two photos (one taken on the road outside the first abode, the other taken on holiday that same year), I suspect that my earlier memories may have been reinforced down through the years in a way that my later ones haven't.

I daresay that if I had photos of the car outside the second house, that would probably be my primary association of it, or at least, it would depend on which photo from which house I was looking at at any given time.  Same with comics I remember reading in the car.  Namely, an issue or two of TV CENTURY 21 from when I lived in the previous house, and at least one issue of FANTASTIC from when I lived in the next one.  My associations are different depending on just what comic I'm focussing on.

Anyway, no great insight here, I'm afraid.  I just wanted to throw that out there and see what 'echoes' come back.  Strike any cords with you?

    

JUST ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL...

When my old primary school was demolished in 2014, I'd known it was due to happen quite a few years before it actually did.  Not the precise date or year, but its fate had been determined and announced well in advance, in line with a policy of building new schools, then demolishing the old ones.  The building was structur-ally sound, as were most (if not all) of the other schools, but this way, land could be freed up for new housing.  It seems to me that the land used for building the new schools could've been utilised for housing, but what do I know?  I'm not a politician in pursuit of an agenda (or career).

I can't help but think that the neighbourhood is poorer for the original school's absence.  It added character and colour to the area, and was designed and built at the same time as the surrounding housing, back around 1963.  Now (from some angles) the place looks crowded and claustrophobic, and lacks the aesthetic charm it possessed when first completed.  I moved into the area in 1965, and I can still recall the early impressions it made on me as regards mood and atmosphere. That's now gone and hasn't existed for many a year, and I sometimes wonder how new residents perceive the place as far as 'character' goes.  My old neighbours from next door have lived there since their house was first built - maybe I should ask them for their perceptions on how the area has changed?

The school had a low wall around three sides of it, with railings on top, and I remember sometimes on my way home, if I had a toy car in my pocket, I'd run it along the flat top of the wall with my hand, or, holding on to the railings, walk along the wall as if I were balancing on a tightrope.  When the school was obliterated, I managed to rescue one of the bricks from the wall, near to where the main front gate was situated, and it now resides in my back porch until I decide exactly what I'm going to do with it.  At the moment it serves as a reminder of younger and happier times, and one glance at it returns me to my schooldays, when I had no sense of the future, or any idea that the neighbourhood wouldn't always be the same as it then was.

So many memories, so many years - all contained in just another brick in the wall.

LIVING IN A BUBBLE...

It was when we were on holiday in Ayr (I think), around 1963, that I acquired my first Bubble Car.  I've recounted this story before (on my other blog), but there's a reason for me repeating myself, which will become clear in a moment.  We were in an amusement arcade, and one of those 'grappling-hook' machines had a deep red Bubble Car on view.  My father had a go or two at securing it for me, but was unsuccessful.  The manager of the place, hearing my expression of disappoint-ment, invited me to follow him (with my family in tow) and made his way to the back of the arcade.  Pulling aside a curtain to a back storeroom, he opened a box and withdrew something, then presented me with my very own red Bubble Car.  I, of course, was ecstatic at my new acquisition.  To this day though, I can't recall if this was the start of my love affair with Bubble Cars, or it pre-existed before that particular presentation.  (I suspect the latter.)

Anyway, what's all that got to do with the price of cheese?  Simply this.  I just took possession of the above HEINKEL Bubble Car by OXFORD Diecast (1:18 scale), and though my 1963 version wasn't a Heinkel, it reminds me of the one I had in my infancy (which was a plastic, friction-drive, four-wheeled toy). I could've got a right-hand drive version, but not in red (only 'Roman Blue'), so I plumped for the left-hand drive model.  Great, innit?  Takes me right back to Ayr in 1963. Hey, that's some distance, so the 'miles-to-the-gallon' count is quite impressive.

Incidentally, the colour above is described as 'Spartan Red', but looks a bit orangey in these photos from eBay (probably the lighting or the flash).  The one below (also described as 'Spartan Red') better reflects what the actual colour looks like. So, while I gaze in rapt fascination at my new Bubble Car, I muse in a mildly melancholy manner on the one I owned 55 years ago.  Maybe one day I'll be able to track down a replacement, but in the meantime this one is very welcome.

SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS - PART THIRTEEN: PUSHED IN A PUDDLE...

The scene of the 'crime':  The foot of the grassy slope, several feet along from the stairs.
The puddle was at the edge of the grass in the foreground.  The school is just out of view
on the right side of the photo

Me and Euan Shepherd weren't exactly what you'd call pals.  However, between classmates, there existed a kind of unwritten rule that it was acceptable, in the absence of one's usual friends, to pass the time in the company of whichever fellow pupil was available when required.  A sort of 'surrogate' pal in effect.

Such was the case on this particular day.  School had finished and Ewan and I found ourselves in each other's company as we exited from the school gates.  We made our way to his house, a mere two minutes (if) away from my own, to dump his schoolbag, but he met with an objection from his mother at going back out again.  He pleaded, begged, cried, and implored until his poor mother relented.  "15 minutes - no more!"

So we made our way to the swingpark beside a playing-field between our two houses.  On the way, we ran into his older sister (Laura Isobel by name), who enquired where he was going and why he wasn't already home.  She then took his hand and started to lead him back towards his house. Unsurprisingly, Ewan burst into tears and protested that he had permission to be out, but she was having none of it. I timidly piped up at the back "His mum said he could stay out for 15 minutes", whereupon she turned and looked at me as if I were a bad smell.

Then she simply shoved me hard in the chest.  I fell backwards and landed in a large muddy puddle.  As I lay there, spreadeagled and stunned into silence in my surprise, Ewan looked at me, ceased his crying, and burst into the irritating girlish giggle for which he was so renowned and ridiculed in equal measure.  Then he simply turned his back and accompanied his bitch of a sister home.  Treacherous b*st*rd! This was my reward for my intercession on his behalf?

I would've thought, at the very least, in shame at his sister's behaviour, he'd have assisted me to my feet and apologised for her shocking act, but no, Ewan found it highly amusing.  I was left on my own to extricate myself (with much squelching) from the sodden, muddy puddle and make my way home, there to explain my dufflecoat's soiled condition.

Needless to say, I took nothing to do with the wee pr*ck after that.  Even amongst 'fill-in' friends, a certain degree of loyalty was expected, and Ewan had been found sadly lacking and fallen at the first hurdle.  Perhaps to this day he looks back and wonders why he wasn't particularly popular at primary.  (Certainly not with me anyway.)

If so, guess what?  I could tell him!

Me and Ewan in a class photo.  He's standing on a kerb
behind me, hence the seemingly immense difference in
our height

HONEST - I ONCE HAD A 'NOBEL PRIZE'...

I've shown these photos before (on my other blog), but there's a reason for their re-appearance.  I'm unsure as to which of the photos was taken first (possibly the colour one), but both of them were snapped in 1965.  The colour picture was taken outside the house I recently regained entry to for the first time in 50 years, and the b&w pic was captured in Port Bannatyne when we holidayed there in May/ June of '65.  (That's #19 of TV CENTURY 21 I'm holding in my grubby paws.)

Look at the car though.  We had this car from 1964 to around 1969 or '70, and I remember reading early issues of TV21 right up to middle issues of FAN-TASTIC while being driven home from the shops after buying them.  The car is a NOBEL 200, the British version of the German FULDAMOBIL, and had a fibreglass chassis.  I only ever saw one other (at a distance), and though I've a strong impression that I was in our Nobel at the time, I now wonder if it might actually have been from our new vehicle (a RELIANT ROBIN) - which, if so, means it's entirely possible that what I saw was our own, former car.

However, let's not get bogged down with uncertainty at this stage. The point is that it was a rare car, and even without the photos, the licence number (77 JJO) was lodged in my brain from an early age.  That's mainly because, another house later, it matched our house number - 77 - and the JJO has a rhythm about it which is hard to forget. Looking back, it's the only number plate of the several cars my parents owned that I remember. I'd like to think it's still out there somewhere, owned by a collector, and wasn't consigned to oblivion many years ago.

I tend to regard it as a long-absent family member with whom I'd like to get reacquainted.  If, by some slim chance, any of you happen to know of its whereabouts, or how I could find out its fate, then let me know, eh?  It'd be nice to hear that it still exists.

******

Update: Managed to find and buy a limited edition, white metal model (1.43 scale) of the car on eBay. It was manufactured by a German company called BUDIG in around 2008.

ONCE THERE WERE GREEN FIELDS, PARCHED BY THE SUN - OR AT LEAST THERE USED TO BE - THEY'VE BEEN BUILT ON...

The fields were on the other side of the trees on the left of photo

How we first experience a place is usually how we imagine it's always going to be - how it always should be in fact.  That's how it is for me anyway.  Case in point, when my family moved into a new house in another area in 1983, on the other side of the path which ran by our house, was a huge field - then a road, and then another field.  And I believe there were even more fields beyond that.

That's how it was for the four years and three months we stayed there.  Several years after having moved away, I revisited the area and was surprised to see that a large housing estate had been built on the previously adjoining fields.  The sense of space was gone, and the neighbourhood now seemed over-developed, not to mention claustrophobic.  From my point of view, the absence of the fields ruined the area, and I was glad that when I lived there, I experienced it at its best.  In my memory, that's how the place should look - and still does whenever I think of it. (Just not when I revisit though.)

So do you feel the same about any place from your past where you lived or frequented when younger?  Do you lament any changes, or accept them with no qualms - or don't they matter to you one way or the other?  Should you feel the need to express yourselves, you know where the comments section is.

WHAT'S IN A NAME? ARE YOU KIDDING? A LIKELY STORY...

"Why are you called 'Kid'?  Is it because you act like one?"

If I had a pound for every time I've been asked that, I'd have - well, I'd have a pound actually, so I don't suppose there's really too much interest in the topic.  However, I have to fill this blog with something, so - assuming you'll all bear with me in yet another act of shameless self-indulgence - I shall address the issue in the forlorn hope that anybody even remotely cares.

There was a period during my early teenage years when I called everyone "kid".  It was short, snappy, and it meant never having to worry about remembering people's names.  One day, I ran into a pal of mine in the company of a group of his friends.  Anticipating my familiar, well-worn greeting, he thought he'd get in first in a daring act of mockery at my little peccadillo.  (Feel free to supply your own amusing rejoinder to that last sentence.)  "Hi Kid!" he said with a cheeky grin upon his smug countenance, immensely satisfied with himself for - in his mind - 'beating me to the punch'.

His pals were unaware of his intended 'irony' however, and merely assumed it to be my nickname.  But ours is a drama decreed by the fates to be acted out (always loved that line by LARRY LIEBER); I subsequently became friendly with that little group, who - in their innocence - always referred to me by that appellation.  And so the name stuck and I've been known as "Kid" - to them and to others - ever since.

But whence came the habit which led to me effectively naming myself?  Why did I call people "kid" to begin with?  I'm glad I pretended you asked.  You see, back in the early 1970s, there was a brilliant comedy show called WHATEVER HAPPENED To The LIKELY LADS, starring JAMES BOLAM and RODNEY BEWES.  In fact, as they had alternating billing from week to week, if you re-read that last sentence, reverse the order of their names so that I don't hear from their agents or solicitors.

Although the programme was a comedy, it also had pathos, poignancy and profundity - otherwise known as the three Ps.  During the course of their frequent nostalgia-laden soliloquies, the characters often addressed each other as "kid" or "kidda".  In my devotion to the programme and my desire to emulate the two main characters, I soon adopted the practice of referring to everyone I knew (and even some I didn't) as "kidda", which resulted in some fairly puzzled looks.  That's because the words "kidda" and "kidder" sound pretty similar when pronounced with a lazy Glaswegian accent, and this made folks think I was accusing them of pulling my leg in some way.

"Kidder?" they'd say in a slightly bewildered manner (likewise mispronouncing it as "kidda") - "Kiddin' about what?"  Well, it didn't take me too long to realize that adopting the shorter option - "kid" - would avoid any unnecessary confusion amongst my sturdy band of companions and free me from having to endlessly explain myself.  It could've been far worse, as I'd once been in the habit of exclaiming "Jings, man!" in response to anything of even a vaguely interesting or surprising nature.

This inevitably led to all my friends and acquaintances calling me "Jings-Man" every time I appeared on the horizon.  Fortunately, I soon dropped the use of this 'oath' (doubtless acquired from reading too many BROONS and Oor WULLIE strips in The SUNDAY POST) and thus escaped any longterm association with the name which could've resulted in lasting damage to my delicate sensibilities.  I much prefer being called "Kid" - or "Sir", even.  (In fact, now that I come to think about it, "Master" is good as well.)

And there you have it!  The hitherto secret origin of how I gained my teenage nickname which has remained with me to this day.  And you also have an object lesson in the art of writing something about nothing - but you should only ever do so if your very life depends on it, so I have absolutely no excuse.