Chapter 1
I could share many more tales from my boyhood and teenage years, but of course, you can’t recount every cigarette smoked or every girl kissed—otherwise, this would end up being an interminably long and tedious read! So, I’ll try to focus on a few memorable stories that might pique your interest. One of the more peculiar ones involves pianos, pop careers, hire purchase, the burning of wooden toy trains (and pianos!), and even a bit of the political and cultural backdrop of the time. Ha ha! This is a rather complex story, but let’s take it one step at a time...
The “British Dream”
My elder brother Stuart was very much a child of the 1960s. Everyone’s heard of the “American Dream,” but few have heard of the “British Dream.” This idea began to emerge in the late 1950s, when Conservative Prime Minister Harold Macmillan famously declared, “You’ve never had it so good!” referring to the transition from post-war austerity to post-war affluence.
Of course, Macmillan’s phrase became muddled with the “Christine Keeler scandal”—a rather infamous affair in which her wealthy clients were said to have “never had it so good!” But I digress. It’s an interesting point: during the post-war years, sexual satisfaction and social mobility seemed often intertwined. For many, marrying “up” in the social hierarchy was seen as a means to better one’s life. Marrying the girl next door was almost as unappealing as marrying a Catholic—at least in the eyes of my mother, who had her own very specific ideas about social and religious standing.
The Toy Train Tragedy
But let’s get back to the bonfires. When I was about five years old, living in 3 York Avenue, Culcheth, Lancashire, in the north of England, my father—always the practical man—began collecting wood for the Guy Fawkes bonfire. Among the items he found was a wooden train that had been crafted by him, out of parts from old prams. It wasn’t a commercially made toy, but rather a work of fatherly craftsmanship passed down to me from my older brothers. And I loved it.
One day, I couldn’t find my beloved wooden train. Naturally, I turned to my mother for answers, and she casually informed me, “Your father’s thrown it on the bonfire.” Just like that. As though it were the most normal thing in the world. Needless to say, I was devastated. Imagine waking up one day, a proud train owner, only to find your prized possession consumed by flames.
Fast forward to the 1960s, and my father repeated this “crime” when, one November 5th, he threw my piano onto the bonfire. I had acquired the piano from my friend Pete, and while it wasn’t a grand instrument, it meant something to me. Yet, it too met a fiery demise in the field behind our house in Billericay.
I suppose my father, in his own way, saw what he created as his to destroy - in the case of the train. But there was one silver lining: the warmth of the bonfire, the dazzling fireworks, and the toffee apples my mother made to soften the blow. We even baked potatoes in the embers of the fire—a small consolation in the face of my burning losses.
