Category Archives: School

car in the community

February 8, 2023 onceuponatime70s 7 Comments

Header image, credit James Taylor)

Growing up in The Sixties and through the early to mid-Seventies, having a family car was more of a luxury than the virtual necessity it’s become these days. Can you imagine, then, the excitement I felt as a seven-year old, when my dad shelled out (he reckons) no more than forty pounds for a second hand Hillman Californian, back in 1965?

I’m no Jeremy Clarkson, or James May or even that other bloke – all I know is it was two-tone green, had five wheels (yes it did – I’m counting the steering wheel) and having now looked it up, was technically a 1953 Hillman Minx Mk VIII Californian. (Like the one above.)

So, it was possibly about twelve years old when we got it. Way to go, Dad!

Hey – I’m not complaining. It may have been a bit rickety and perhaps not the most dependable, but it did allow us to get away on holidays – rather surprisingly as far away as Littlehampton in Sussex, though that did entail at least one overnight stop, two doses of Avomine travel sickness tablets, four loaves of bread and three jars of Heinz Sandwich spread.

“Are we there yet?”

As I recall, we ran this car for a good few years – even when my sister and I were told not to put our feet on the rusted floor for fear of falling through. Dad eventually called time on the Californian when he parked up one evening, pulled on the handbrake, and it came away in his hand.

Our next two cars were also bought second hand. The first was a blue and white Ford Cortina (Mk 1, apparently) with the registration number, BYS 616C. A few years later, and we’d upgraded to a sort of beige coloured Ford Corsair – registration KUS 72E.

I think these particular ‘reggies’ stick in my mind because together with the other kids in my street, I used to keep a notebook with a record of all the plates I saw! Like sad little wannabe traffic wardens, we’d walk round by where we lived and fastidiously note down the registration numbers with the make and model of all the cars we saw.

Don’t laugh – it was a proper ‘thing’ back in the day. Granted, we maybe we took it a tad too far, but there were actually books that would help identify the makes and models we spotted.

Fortunately, I managed to kick that habit in the early Seventies before there was ever a chance of being dragged into the dark and murky world of plane spotting.

By now, my uncle was working as an accountant for Ford Motor Company and so could supply my parents with a steady stream of Cortinas, Granadas and the like, all at super-knocked down prices. We were very lucky.

Luckier still, when in the middle of the decade, my dad qualified for a company car. This meant the family budget could extend to a second car – one for my mum’s exclusive use. Ha Ha! Like it was ever going to work like that.

This was indeed an exciting development. I had just turned seventeen and was now of age to slap these big red, ‘L’ lettered plates on the bumpers of a car and take to the road. I’d seen those American ‘teen movies’ where to the soundtrack of late-Fifties Rock ‘n’ Roll, the local lads with big, flash cars were idolised by attractive girls in brightly coloured swing skirts.

Sadly there weren’t many ice-cream parlours in my area and even less Drive-In Movie lots, but I still I had visions of cruising the not-so-mean streets of suburban Bearsden in a fancy-dan, shiny, ‘chick-magnet.’ The trouble was, a classic T-Bird 1948 convertible far outreached my budget, and the car I had ready access to was …my mum’s red Fiat 126!

Hey! Check me out!

Of course, it wasn’t that simple. I had to pass my driving test first, and that proved a little problematic. I sat the exam at my local test centre – Anniesland, Glasgow. Typical of my luck, the examiner was the one with the reputation for failing young drivers as a matter of course. True to form, after giving way to a corporation bus which had encroached onto my side of the road, I bombed. (Apparently, I showed undue consideration and should have carried on. Oh yeah?)

It would be another few months before I could re-sit.

Not to worry. I was young for my school year (August birthday) and many of my pals had already passed their test and now drove around in their parents’ cars, or even their own. One had an unreliable Ford Capri and another in my close circle had a dark green, Morris 1100. It had more room in the back than the Capri and wasn’t quite so prone to petty malfunctions. Despite it looking decidedly less cool than the metallic-bronze coloured Ford, the owner was pleased that his ‘baby’ was preferred as the communal carrier.

This owner, who shall remain nameless, was not one famed for being outrageous or troublesome in any shape or form in school. Just a decent, ordinary geezer. But behind the wheel of his car, he was a raging lunatic! A real cretin, in fact!

For instance, one school lunch-hour, six of us piled into this four-seater of his. That was bad enough, but he then proudly announced he was going to take a high speed run through a crossroads without either slowing or looking.

The moron did it too.

I fair near wet myself. I wasn’t the only one, either.

He promised faithfully never to do anything so stupid ever again.

He lied.

Some weeks later, two others and I fancied dogging off Maths class went a spin in his car again – ‘spin’ being the operative word.’

Heading out into the countryside he sped over a blind hump / bend combination, only to see a large truck approach from the other direction. Taking urgent evasive action he swerved to the left, clipping the roadside embankment. The car spun violently round, fortunately missing the passing lorry, but catching the opposite verge, putting the car momentarily onto two wheels, before coming to a rocking rest spread across both sides of the road.

The truck driver didn’t stop, perhaps oblivious to the near catastrophe, though more likely not wanting to get caught up in matters entirely not his fault.

The four of us were a gibbering mess. Even our erstwhile stupidly bold and wreckless driver was shaking uncontrollably. He parked the car up at the side of the road and after several minutes’ partial recovery, we unanimously agreed that what was left of double Maths wasn’t such a bad option after all.

A much slower and sensible drive back to school afforded some time to cobble together a feeble excuse about the car breaking down, resulting in our being late to class. We thought the day couldn’t get much worse. We were wrong.

Our regular, soft-touch maths teacher was ill that day and the Deputy Head, who had a fearsome a reputation for discipline, was standing in.

“Where have you boys been? You’ve missed half the lesson. Are you all right? You look white as sheets.”

Mr Wilson? Compassionate?

Nah – it was only a momentary slip of his guard.

“Sir – we were just …”

“I’m not interested in excuses Jackson! The four of you – my office after class.”

All things considered, two of the belt was an infinitely better fate than the possible alternative we had face a couple of hours earlier.

***The tawse – we would get it along the hand, not across as in this image, which could lead to severe wrist bruising!***

I really had to pass my Driving Test and at least be in control of my own destiny.

I could get out and about ok – I had ‘wheels’ in the form of my Suzuki TS125 motorbike. However, asking a girl on a date, then requesting she pull a crash-helmet over her beautifully coiffured barnet is probably not going to lead to a long-term relationship. It also rains a lot in Glasgow. A motorbike ride in the rain is hardly going to impress.

I did, then eventually pass my Driving Test in 1977, sitting it this time at a different test centre. I was by now wearing reading glasses as a matter of course but didn’t want to declare this and be bound to carry them with me and wear them whenever driving. So, prior to the test, I memorised the number plates of the cars which I thought could form part of the eyesight test. (The New Seekers were spot on with their assertion of ‘All my life’s a circle.’)

In time, I would buy my own car, but the decade would be turned by then.

And I never did get that 1948 T-Bird convertible.

Fiat 126? Chick-magnet? I’ve seen more effective fridge-magnets.

(Post by Colin ‘Jackie’ Jackson from Glasgow, February 2023)

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Life, Lifestyle, School, Social life

What’s In a Nickname?

December 20, 2022 onceuponatime70s 7 Comments

***Image minimised for obvious reasons – read on!***

I guess it’s fair to say I’ve been called many things over my time – probably more so behind my back than to my face.

Jackie; Beaky; Ceejay; Wee Man, A few people have also referred to me as ‘Jacko,’ but their bodies lie in shallow graves in my parents’ garden.

‘Jackie,’ is the easiest to justify, given my surname is Jackson. This is how I was known at school, from Primary right through Secondary. Some of my teachers would even refer to me as such.

At the age of fourteen, I joined my Athletics Club – Garscube Harriers. Here, for the first time, I was mixing with lads from outwith my school and immediate locale. Here, for the first time, I was ‘re-christened.’ Two slightly older lads, started referring to me as ‘Beaky.’ The reason is plain as the nose on my face.

A bit harsh, I thought, but boy’s will be boys, I suppose.

Perhaps surprisingly, Davie and Stevie remain amongst my closest friends, fifty years down the line.

By 1977, and still within the athletics community, I was representing Bank of Scotland on the track / cross country / roads in a small team comprising runners from different clubs across the country. As the new boy, when we first met up, nobody knew me as Colin, Jackie or even Beaky. Another ‘re-branding’ was required.

The TV series ‘The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin’ first aired the previous year and had become immensely popular. The boss of main character Reggie Perrin, Charles Jefferson, was known by his initials and so, rather predicably, I (Colin Jackson) was also given this ‘Ceejay’ moniker. No matter what I did, it invariably prompted cries of:

“I didn’t get where I am today by .. not training hard / not finishing my beer / eating my breakfast“ etc, etc..

***C.J. from ‘The Fall & Rise of Reginald Perrin.’***

Any wishful thoughts of ‘Beaky’ being completely replaced by ‘Ceejay’ were quickly dashed, however. Although it didn’t become a chart hit until January 1980 when it reached #5, THIS was initially released as a vinyl single in 1977, and as I recall, played most days by the Noel Edmonds Breakfast Show on Radio 1.

This, of course, was manna from heaven to Davie and Stevie (the bastards!)

Ah well – as Primal Scream would sing many years later ‘Don’t Fight It – Feel It.’ I now answered to: Colin to my family; Jackie to my old, school friends; Beaky to my athletics club and Ceejay to most anybody else.

The latter two remain the most used today.

Anyway, all this got me thinking how generally DULL and lazy we were with regard to nicknames at school.

In most cases, a Christian or surname would simply be elongated by adding a ‘y.’ ‘Burnsy,’ for instance. ‘Smithy.’ ‘Jonesy.’

Obviously, this method can’t be deployed in all instances, and there were occasions when a surname required shortening before the ‘dropped letters’ could be replaced with the ‘y.’

Cruickshank would become ‘Cruiky’; Gilmour, ‘Gilly.’ Your blog co-host Paul Fitzpatrick became ‘Fitzy,’ and of course I became known as ‘Jackie.’

(Yeah, I know … obstreperous and cantankerous little sod, I was. Punk before ‘Punk.’ I insisted in ‘ie’ being added rather than ‘y’ because I didn’t want to carry a girl’s name like the singer of the 1968 chart hit and theme tune to the children’s TV programme, ‘White Horses.’ It was only a few years ago that I learned ‘Jacky’ as she was known on that song, was actually named Jackie Lee. I wasn’t quite the smart-ass little punk I thought I was, as it turned out.)

(Any excuse … I still love this song, soppy old git that I am!)

Some nicknames were inevitably attributed to appearance. I can’t remember any being too unkind – and I’d have to say that in the vast majority of cases, a kid was given a nickname only because they were liked. That said, although we had a ‘Speedy’ who was a very fast and very good football player, we also had a ‘Tubby’ and ‘Jumbo,’ both of whom would play either as goalkeeper or formidable centre half.

There was also a ‘Teeny’ – slightly smaller than myself and, bordering on the cruel side, a ‘Lugsy.’ And a ‘Mouse.’

Then there was another lad called Colin who was deemed to look like a Mexican and carried the name ‘Mex’ at least until the day he left school. It was all pretty much straight forward and sadly lacking invention.

When I was a kid I loved reading the ‘Jennings and Darbyshire’ series of books. These boarding school kids knew how to contrive a decent nickname. Sharing Dorm 4 with them was a boy named Charles A Temple. Using schoolboy logic, they took his initials to form CAT. This they changed by association, to DOG. That somehow became DOGSBODY which was then abbreviated to BOD.

And this was how he became known. Simple, really!

The only boy I recall having a manufactured nickname as such, was my pal Derek.

When playing football in the Primary School playground in the late Sixties, we’d all pick teams we’d imagine playing for. While most kids would go for Rangers / Celtic / Partick Thistle etc, Derek and I opted for Blackpool! Not so much for the fact they’d had some world class players over the years (Matthews, Mortensen and Armfield to name a few) but because we believed Blackpool was a town associated with attractive, scantily clad showgirls … snigger, snigger! (Hey, we were nine / ten years old – cut us some slack, eh?)

I could see myself as the next Tony Green and Derek was Henry Mowbray.

Derek to Henry. In the mind of a child, it all made perfect sense For the remaining seven years of his school life and beyond, he would be known as Henry. Which kind of puzzled and freaked-out his parents in equal measure.

BLACKPOOL FC – 1968 / 69
Henry Mowbray, far right, middle row

Now, maybe I’m wrong with this, and I’m happy to be corrected, but the giving of nicknames was mainly a boy thing. I’m aware of only one girl in our school being afforded one … and that wasn’t until Sixth Year, when we were all about seventeen / eighteen years old.

Marian joined our school from one we believed, a bit more exclusive than ours, when her parents moved into a very affluent area of the town. To preserve relative anonymity, I’ll not divulge too much. It’s sufficient to say she was of an ‘arty’ nature, very talented in that field, and also very attractive. She had a, let’s say, ‘zany’ demeanour. In the Sixties she’d have been described as a ‘free spirit.’ Nowadays, she’d be ‘extrovert.’

This was the Seventies though, and we just regarded her as a loveable hippie ‘loony!’ An amalgam of Seventies Kate Bush and Eighties Bjork, perhaps.

She was known as ‘Mad Marian.’ It was badge she accepted with pride, I think.

The only other girl I know to be given a nickname is Kate Pye. You may actually know her -she was, still is, in Class 2B – of Bash Street School. For some reason, she’s known as ‘Toots.’ Her twin Sidney is just plain ~~old~~ young Sidney.)

***Toots*** ***from The Bash Street Kid***s

Of the seven kids featured as being in this ‘gang’ only Toots and two others were called by nicknames. And Toots is the only one to retain her moniker. It seems writers and publishers alike feared a backlash from the Woke Brigade (were they a rival school gang?) and in 2021 re-named ‘Fatty’ as Freddie, and ‘Spotty’ as Scotty.

(Plug, was given this name, not as I’d always considered, because of his unattractive, OK, ugly, looks. Apparently, when he was briefly awarded the recognition of a whole comic in his own name in 1977, it was revealed that his full name was Percival Proudfoot Plugsey.)

Believe that if you will … I sense some very early back-pedaling here.

Teachers, of course, were fair game.

We had two brothers who taught at our school. Both had prominent noses, so shared the endearing name of ‘Pin.’ And rather appropriately, as a means of distinguishing between them, the Art teacher was referred to as ‘Drawing Pin.’

We also had a ‘Pancho ‘(what was it with the Mexican look in our wee town?); a ‘Horsey’ (girls’ Sports teacher); ‘Boot’ (boys’ Sports teacher); Numph – I have no idea where that came from, but boy, could he dish out the belt! There was also an elderly English teacher called Mr Lyle, who was affectionately known as ‘Papa’ Lyle.

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It’s been a pleasant surprise to recall just how generally kind and inoffensive most nicknames have been, in my experience.

A nickname is fun, and while it may emanate from and focus upon a physical or personality trait, it’s often simply a kind and gentle representation of someone’s character. It changes nothing. Not normally.

Credit to Papa Lyle, in Sixth Year English class, for highlighting the following idea from that Shakespeare dude’s ‘Romeo & Juliet’:

“What’s in a (nick)name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.”

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(Post by Colin ‘Jackie Beaky Ceejay’ Jackson from Glasgow – December 2022)

*MUSIC, Musician, School

orchestral manoeuvres in the …

April 22, 2022 onceuponatime70s 2 Comments

(Post by John Allan from Bridgetown, Western Australia – April 2022.)

I know on this 70s blog I’ve gone on and on about my musical ‘prowess’. How I was a legend in my own lunch time gigging around the west of Scotland in my late teens. I feel I must now fill you in on the early years.

My first roar of the paint, smell of the crowd moment was at an end of term concert at Castlehill Primary School. There I was in front of the pupils and parents, first descant recorder in the Primary 7 ensemble belting out the theme tune to Dr Finlay’s Casebook. It’s a delicate little ditty ideally played at a steady pace and moderate volume. I call it the Flower of Scotland effect, in it’s original form a lilting ballad.

But when you start to feel the vibe of the audience the hair stands up on the back of your neck and things inevitably go up a notch. Before you know it there’s foot stomping and fists punching the air. I’m sure I even heard a and it’s hi ho silver lining. And these were the parents !

Bitten by the performing bug, I was soon brought down to earth when I went to orchestral practice at the Secondary school. By now I had moved on to flute, an instrument easily concealed in a duffel bag alongside your football kit so that you didn’t look like a real wally. Unfortunately in the rehearsal room you were fully exposed as it jutted out into the playing fields and had windows on all 3 sides. You were at the merciless gaze of the sporty knuckle draggers as they pressed their broken noses against the glass.

Undeterred, conductor Mrs. McIntosh and the orchestra carried on. I say orchestra but at best it was a dozen or more students of varying musical abilities.

The leader was a very accomplished young lass who was also a bit of a looker which in itself probably boosted numbers. She also attracted the attention of the Chemistry teacher who was dating her at the time. There’s a smutty pun in their somewhere with fiddles, elements, G strings or periodic but it’s not coming to me. Innuendos on a postcard to ……………

There were a few more violins, a cello or two and a viola player who I brought to tears with my what’s the difference between a trampoline and a viola ? – It’s more fun to jump up and down on a viola ! joke.

I think the woodwind outnumbered the strings. I was one of 3 flutes one of whom was much better than me and one that was not. Spotty Di believed that integral to the flautist’s armoury was a constant supply of confectionery. She had squares of chocolate lined up on her music stand and would devour one or two at a bars rest. She once had to borrow the tutor’s instrument and stripped it bare of it’s silver plate with the ooze bubbling out of her pores. Takes Willy Wonka’s toot sweet to a whole new level (or was that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang ?).

Clarinets seem to outnumber every one with their dry reed squeaks. The musical equivalent to nails on the blackboard.

The oboist did very good water bird impressions. I’m sure I spotted a few duck hunters and their spaniels hiding in the bushes.

The brass had 2 trumpets (or maybe one was the klaxon coming from the athletics field) and a kid who could barely stand up because of the weight of his trombone. He formed a triangle.

The most annoying individual was the percussionist. I called him ‘Tool’ partly because he was but mainly as he was always Too Loud and Too Late.

His miscued cymbal crashes were like an inebriated ironmongers’ stocktake and his timpani rolls were like Morse code and certainly less thrilling than Johnson’s at Firhill (Partick Thistle in-joke there !)

Come to think of it, I don’t ever remember the orchestra playing at a public concert. Maybe I was too mortified to turn up.

I do remember being in a flute trio and being pimped out by Mrs. Mac to various churches. The acoustics were always quite good as your final notes were still ringing out when you had packed up and were half way to the bus stop.

I was also in a flute quintet. That’s flute plus a string quartet not 5 flutes. That’s the Orange Walk !

I think I made sporadic appearances at orchestral rehearsals so I could get two weeks off, twice a year, to attend the County Schools Orchestra music courses at Pirniehall in the wilds of Croftamie. Now that band could really baroque !

And of course be with the lovely first violin leader away from Mr Bunsen Burner !

She was quite a specimen who hit all the high notes.

Got one !!

Diary of a Pimply Kid, Life, School

diary of a pimply kid: memories of the late 60s & 70s – gordon is a moron.

April 11, 2022 onceuponatime70s 3 Comments

(*a little bit fact; a bit more fiction; much exaggerated.*

Friday 15^th March 1974 – (aged 15 – towards end of 4^th Year)

I think I’m in love!

I don’t mean some forlorn schoolboy crush like for Miss Hunter – no, this is proper breathing onto the palm of my hand for traces of halitosis type of ‘in love.’ And liberal applications of Valderma ointment.

**Valderma – for effective treatment of plooks!**

Her name is Pilar. That’s Spanish, by the way. For ‘pillar.’ Though I don’t suppose you’d have to be a language teacher to work that one out. In Catholic tradition it refers to a ‘marble pillar connected with an appearance of the Virgin Mary.’ I know. I looked it up.

Pilar and her family came to Scotland from Chile. They left their homeland when General Pinochet took over the country in a military coup. Things are looking bad over there. People are being murdered in the streets by the army.

It’ll be about six weeks since we first chatted – her first day in school. She’s quiet spoken and pretty shy. In fact, just pretty, full stop. Demure. I got that word from the Jane Austen books we have to read in English. Yeah, ‘demure.’ That’s Pilar. And pretty. Did I say ‘pretty?’

I have no idea why she seems to like me. Maybe because I was one of the first to welcome her? Her English isn’t great so maybe because I’ve borrowed my parent’s BBC ‘Zarabanda’ LP and try to speak her lingo? Maybe it’s because I make her laugh?

I seem able to do these last two at the same time: today I thought I was complimenting her wavy, light brown hair (pelo) but told her I loved her money (pela.) She laughed, in a kindly, sympathetic kind of way.

We’re not ‘going out’ or anything – just hang out at break / lunch. She comes to watch me play football – even just ‘playground football.’ (Being from South America, she’ll know a good football player when she sees one!)

I got pulled up by Miss Fisher for not concentrating in Maths class and looking out the window to the classroom below where Pilar was sat by the window smiling and waving to me. I got such a beamer’ when the teacher realised why my attention was not on my books and then told the class! It was one of those ‘reading-glasses-steam-up’ and ‘shirt-sticks-to-your-back,’ types of brassneck!

Wednesday 10^th April 1974 – (still aged 15 – closer to end of 4^th Year.)

I’m an idiot! A complete and utter choob!

I’ve been so wrapped up in my athletics and football, I simply didn’t see this coming. Practicing keepie-uppie this evening, I noticed a couple walking slowly and in silence through the woods at the back of my garden. It was Gordon. In his stupid, long, blue, ex-RAF Great Coat type thing! He probably had a poxy Gentle Giant album tucked under his free arm, I didn’t notice. My gaze didn’t stray past his other arm – he was holding hands with …. with ….. Pilar!

How could she be so cruel and heartless? To pack me for Gordon? (OK, technically, as I said, we weren’t ‘going out.’ But even so! I mean – I know I’m not exactly cool and trendy, but he’s a moron!

At least they weren’t laughing at me. Far from it. Gordon just stared straight ahead. Couldn’t look me in the eye. The git!

Pilar though … dearest Pilar. She noticed me alright and keeping her free hand by her side, gave a wee discreet wave. As she passed she turned her head, her luxuriant brown locks swirling over her opposite shoulder like a model in a Harmony Hairspray advert. She smiled sweetly.

Without their usual sparkle, though, her brown eyes belied the happiness of her lips.

She looked sad. I’m sad.

I’m devastated actually – not least because I was within reach of my keepie-uppie personal best of 957 when I dropped the ball.

This is all my own stupid fault, though. You know the expression: ‘You snooze, you lose.’ Well I slept – and I wept.

(Nah, not really. I didn’t actually cry – that would‘ve been a bit pathetic and melodramatic, wouldn’t it? Anyway there’s no chip shop close by.)

Thursday 25^th April 1974 – (still aged 15, but it’s been a long two weeks. O’Levels looming.)

Pilar and I have remained friends Why not? She continues to melt my heart. She still seeks me out in the playground. Yet, despite all the positive, almost pleading signs, I’ve still not worked up the courage to ask her ‘out’ out. What the hell is wrong with me?! – That must truly be 8^th Dan Black Belt in Stupidity, right there! What an absolute pillock!

You’d think I’d have learned from my first Lesson in Love.

This is Pimply Kid.
Pimply Kid is a dork.
Pimply Kid bottled asking just one simple question.
**Just ask the goddamned question!**
Don’t be a dork.
Don’t be like Pimply Kid!

FOOTNOTE #1: Pilar and her family only remained in Scotland for a few months and by summer, she’d moved on again.

FOOTNOTE #2: About thirty years later, while writing for a music magazine, I became friendly with a couple of bands from Chile. I asked them about Pilar. They’d never heard of her. Seems Chile is a pretty big place.

FOOTNOTE #3: Because of Pilar; because of the bands Spiral Vortex and Follkzoid, and because I was playing with the Chile Subbuteo team when I first heard a Rory Gallagher record : for those very three reasons, I feel an affinity and love for the country and fly their flag above the turret on the east wing of the house.*

*This last bit may be slightly made up.

Pilar, ella fue mi primer amor. Viva Chile!

Diary of a Pimply Kid, Life, Lifestyle, School, Social life, Teenage Years

diary of a pimply kid: memories of the late 60s & 70s – Focus on the Trees.

March 15, 2022 onceuponatime70s 4 Comments

(*a little bit fact; a bit more fiction; much exaggerated.*)

Wednesday 31^st May 1972 – (aged 13, end of 2^nd year)

Everyone today is talking about a band from Holland called Focus. They were on the Old Grey Whistle Test last night. Most in the Smokers Union shelter say how amazing that yodeling guy was. Some though, those I see wearing the ex-RAF great coats with an LP by the band stuck under their armpit, have a smug ‘told you’ smile and ignore our conversation.

Focus on The Old Grey Whistle Test.

It was very wet at PE time. Old Boot (gym teacher) decided it was too wet to play football. What?! This is Glasgow. Rangers, Celtic, Thistle, Clyde and Queens Park all manage to play ok.

Anyway – PE was switched indoors to the gym. Everyone has football boots – only a few also brought gym shoes. Those of us who hadn’t were lined up to get two of the belt! Old Boot got more exercise than any of us.

Buses were late to pick us up at 4 o’clock. Had to stand out in the rain till they arrived. Trip home was a bit smelly.

Rain stops but did some studying for exams till teatime then out to the clearing in the woods for a game of football. Get chased by Mr McIlwham who says we shouldn’t be using trees as goalposts because they can feel the ball hitting against them. (Cuckoo!)

Lucky we weren’t using a Mitre Mouldmaster, then is all I can say.

Well, that’s it – game’s a bogey! We tell Mr McIlwham that we’re off now to break some windows and scrawl graffiti.

See us kids, eh?!

(Post by Colin ‘Jackie’ Jackson of Glasgow – March 2022)

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Life, Lifestyle, School, Social life, Teenage Years

diary of a pimply kid: memories of the late 60s & 70s – ‘Big’ School.

March 11, 2022 onceuponatime70s Leave a comment

(*a little bit fact; a bit more fiction; much exaggerated.*)

Monday 10^th August 1970 (aged 12 – only just.)

Didn’t finish my Ready Brek this morning – first day at big school, so tummy churning a bit. Been told all sorts of stories of what the 2^nd Years would do to welcome us.

Excited about getting a bus to school. (You can read Paul’s wonderful account of this, here.)
Met pals at The Cooperative Shop in the village. Lots of the older boys from the village gang were there. I know several of them so it was ok even though they were a bit boisterous.

Tried to get on the top deck of the bus but seems there is some kind of ~~hye~~r ~~highera~~ order about where you are meant to sit. Got bundled down to the lower deck. The conductress seemed a bit stressed.
“Sit down! No standing upstairs! Keep away from the open platform! Have you tickets and bus passes ready! I SAID NO STANDING UPSTAIRS!”

Stood around the main entrance with my pals until we were put into our classes. A few from my primary school are also in 1A. Boys and girls from four other schools are in my class. They look OK.

In class, we have to copy down our timetable. When did I sign up for Latin?! Mum! Dad! What?!

It could be worse, I suppose – double English to start the week on a Monday morning. And double PE on Wednesday afternoon to finish – that’s good.

I am in Endrick House – I have to go to the annex for registration each morning before class.

Break-time and many pals are welcomed into Bearsden Academy by having their heads stuck down the toilet pan which is then flushed. There are some fights. Most just give in. I escape attention until afternoon break for some reason. The suspense is terrible.

Eventually, I’m picked out, but my captors don’t drag me to the toilets. Instead, I’m carried to a drinking fountain and held over it by my arms and legs. I then had my trousers soaked, front and back, before a teacher chased the boys away.

First Latin lesson next – infectum bum I think is the translation.

Trousers still damp when I get home, so place them over the clothes horse in front of the fire.

Pilchards on toast for tea. Blech! Out to play and swap footy cards with pals and tales of first day at big school.

It’ll be alright. I think.

________________

Family life, School

wise words.

February 25, 2022 onceuponatime70s 1 Comment

(Post by Andrea Grace Burn of East Yorkshire – February 2022 )

My dad always told me that we make our own luck in life by keeping an open mind and a positive attitude. His notion that people could roughly be divided into ‘radiators’ and ‘drains’ still makes me laugh. There are people who always see the best in everything and everyone, and those who see the worst. Dad would then remind me that these ‘drains’ were in fact sad, unfortunate souls who had perhaps never received a kind word or a hug as a child, or never witnessed a beautiful rainbow. Their lot was to be pitied, not vilified.

“Kid, you’re like your old man…,” I knew where this was going…”you see the glass half-full, not half-empty.” He would tell me that often. I used to think Dad was funny but as I get older, I realise he had a point.

Take the person walking their dog with their eyes downcast (no – not looking for dog mess), hunched shoulders and never a cheery ‘hello’ for their fellow human beings. I had such an encounter recently as I was walking my pooch up the steps from the beach and met a gentleman walking his dog down the steps. He grunted at me, which I presumed meant ‘move over’.

I quipped, “shall we dance?” with a light laugh, only to be met with another grunt. No eye contact. Refusing to step to one side so that we could pass each other, I wanted to say, “I’ll move then, shall I?” but remembering my dad’s words, I acquiesced politely and went back down the steps to wait; allowing the chap and his dog to continue to the beach. Without as much as a by-your-leave, he swept past me. I could hear Dad saying, “Now Andrea, remember: this poor guy may have received some bad news, or woken up on the wrong side of bed. He can’t help it.”

Some people have the ability to put on a smile whatever the weather, while some wear their heart on their sleeve – or their big chip on their shoulder.

I believe it is true to say that the British, on the whole, are a self-deprecating bunch; apologising for everything from the weather to queueing in a shop.

“Sorry about the rain lass; maybe it’ll fair up by dinner, ”as if the weather is their fault. “Ooh, sorry but I was in the queue first.”

Americans, on the whole, take life in their stride and meet it head on; not apologising for it.

“Say son, you’ll need your umbrella today; we’re going to get that much needed rain, yes-siree, Bob.” Or, “Excuse me Ma’am, the line for the check-out starts back there.

”More direct but always polite.

My husband’s grandmother – a true Yorkshire woman – always looked down as she was walking; not to be downcast but rather in the hope of finding something useful. When she passed away and the family were clearing her house, they found dozens and dozens of odd, ladies’ leather gloves, which she had collected over her lifetime in the hope of finding a matching pair. (She never did). Ever optimistic: one of life’s ‘radiators’.

When it came to winning and losing, my Dad was equally sage:

“Kid – life is full of setbacks, but it’s how ya deal with them that counts. Keep your eye on the horizon, look trouble straight in the eye, learn from your mistakes and move on. No point cryin’ over spilt milk.” A can-do attitude.

When I was about fourteen or so, I was asked by my music teacher, Mr. Carter, to play a piano solo in an ‘Evening of Music’ at school. I had been taking piano lessons for a couple of years but still couldn’t sight-read musical notation. Having a ‘good ear’ like my dad, who was a very fine musician and pianist, I had learnt the piece of classical music by heart with a lot of practice.

The ‘Evening of Music’ arrived in due course and there, in the school hall in the front row, sat my dad – my proud dad – alongside Mr Carter, the head teacher and chair of governors. Behind them sat rows of parents and students. My name was announced, I took my seat at the piano and waited for the rustle of programmes to cease. The lights dimmed and a spotlight hit the stage. Someone coughed at the back of the hall before the final hush.

I started the piece well, confident that I would perform Chopin’s Nocturne in E Flat Major like a virtuoso. I got about half-way through the music and realised – to my horror – that I had forgotten what comes next. I looked at the sheet music: the music notes were a jumble of crotchets and quavers and my hands began to sweat. I felt sick. As I tried again to pick-up where I had left off, my hands slid across the keys and – as if in an out-of-body experience – I heard myself playing random notes. Sweat trickled down my neck and prickly heat erupted at my chest. The spotlight seemed to shine on my ineptitude. I could feel Dad and the school dignitaries boring a hole in the back of my head.

That was it! Standing to face the stunned audience, I took a bow and screwed the sheet music up into a tight ball.

“I’m sorry folks – I can’t do this any more.”

With that, I held my head up high and flounced off the stage, through the doors of the school hall and out into the foyer, where I collapsed into tears. Dad followed, hot on my heels. He put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me warmly.

“Honey, I’m proud of you. If you’re going to fail – really fail.” I suddenly didn’t feel like a failure any more.

Dad shook hands with Mr. Carter, the head teacher and chair of governors during the interval in his direct, American way.

“My girl’s got some gumption! Boy, I tell ya – she really took the bull by the horns back in there, didn’t she!”

He was met with bemused looks.

“Yes, by gosh– she just walked right off the stage! That takes guts.”

I have never forgotten my proud dad that evening, nor the lesson he taught me. It’s how you deal with life’s setbacks that counts. My father had grown up in the 1920s and ’30s in America during the Great Depression and served his country in WW2 with the US Navy. He knew about life’s hard knocks and about hard work but most of all he knew about resilience, perseverance and human nature.

After a long, tiring day at school, where Dad endeavoured to share his passion for History with his pupils, he would often settle back in his rocking chair by the fire and play his favourite Frank Sinatra record, That’s Life. I can see him there now with his pipe and slippers and hear him singing along to ‘Old Blue Eyes’.

When the going gets tough, I still listen to it. The message in the lyrics has, and continues, to inspire me and serve me well.

My dad was a wonderful father and teacher. He taught me well.

***Andrea and her dad – Christmas 2006.***

( Copyright: Andrea Burn – 21st February 2022)

________________________________________________________________

Family life, Food, School, Teenage Years

In Praise Of Lunch

January 29, 2022 onceuponatime70s 1 Comment

Paul Fitzpatrick: London, January 2022

It came to my mind recently that lunch tends to get overlooked these days.
Brunches & Suppers are regularly championed by Nigella and Jamie, we’re constantly bombarded with dinner ideas on MasterChef and up until intermittent fasting came along we were hoodwinked into thinking that ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day’.

By the way, do you know who’s credited with that oft-repeated and very famous quote?
None other than John Harvey Kellogg…. yeah THAT Kellogg!

Subsequently, lunch has dropped down the ‘square meal’ league table into the relegation zone which is a bit of a comedown.
Once upon a time it used to run away with the title but that was before Gordon Gekko’s “lunch is for wimps” claim in the movie Wall Street.

In its glory years lunch was called dinner, it was the main meal of the day and was eaten any time between late morning and mid afternoon. Then the industrial revolution came along at which point sustenance was required between morning and afternoon shifts to enable workers to sustain maximum effort throughout the day, hence the regimented one hour lunch break, we know now.

Cut forward to today and lunch for many consists of a quick sandwich in front of a computer screen, checking out social media and looking at Nigella’s recipes for supper, or if you’re male, and of a certain age, just checking out Nigella!

Back in the 70s however, when we were at school or newbies in the workplace, lunch WAS the most important meal of the day… by a long chalk.

Maybe it was by default… after all breakfast was relatively basic, a plate of cereal or a slice of toast before you ran out the door to catch the school bus.
Dinner, on the other hand, was a bit more formal in most households, the table would be set but you had to wait till your faither got home.

To be honest dinner was a bit hit or miss in our house.

You see, my dad was an offal man for his offal – kidney, Tongue, liver, tripe, all the stuff that was popular in its day and made fancy window dressing at the butchers…. but offers good reason to turn vegetarian now.

It got worse though, if the raw materials my mum had to work with weren’t great, then her cooking skills only compounded things.

I love my Mum to bits, but she was no Fanny Craddock and trying to mask the stench of charred liver from my favourite Fred Perry polo shirt, (by splashing on copious amounts of Brut) before heading out to impress, was not a pleasant experience.

So, whilst breakfast was on the hoof and dinner could easily have consisted of hoof…. lunch was always to be savoured for a few reasons…..

Firstly, although we may not have been enduring the same hardships as our distant relatives from the 1800’s, lunch still broke up the day perfectly – and if like me you were stuck in a dull lesson pre-lunch, then you could start counting down to the lunchtime bell before meeting up with your pals to eat, blether, and release some of that pent up energy.

Secondly, free-will, which was in scant supply back then, came to the fore as we were able to take ownership of our daily lunching choices.

You could go to the canteen for school dinners if you were seduced by the day’s menu offering, (beef olives was always a favourite), or if you fancied a wee donner (the walk not the kebab) then you could take your lunch money and saunter down to Bearsden Cross to the bakers for a sausage roll or a sandwich…. always accompanied by a carton of ski yoghurt for pudding.
It was probably the best hour of most school days!

School holidays meant lunch at home, and after a bit of trial and error, home lunches became a slick operation, i.e. straight out of a can – Campbell’s chicken soup and cold Ambrosia Devon Custard…. tasty, low-maintenance stuff that even I could prepare without the need to splash any Brut on afterwards.

It’s strange but I can’t remember much about school lunches at primary school, I lived about 15-20 min’s walk from school so I doubt that I lunched at home every day. I do remember a few kids having packed lunches though and thinking that themed lunchboxes were cool, but I don’t think soup and custard would have travelled that well.

Another weekly treat during school holidays was going to Drumchapel swimming baths, not so much for the eye-stinging chlorine or the daredevil belly flops off the dale, but rather for the delicious pie & beans in the adjoining canteen afterwards.

As we moved into the workplace, lunchtimes were a saviour, it broke the day up and gave you time to regroup and recharge your batteries.

I worked in a small office in central Glasgow when I left school. There was just 5 of us and I was the youngest by some 20 years, so come lunchtime I was a lone-wolf – until my good mate Billy Smith started working in Frasers in Buchanan St a few months later.
This was a tremendous turn of events as I used to go with Smiddy to their excellent staff canteen where we’d fill our faces and gawk at all the elegant cosmetic girls, before meandering about town to wile-away the rest of the golden-hour.

It was a splendid arrangement and when Smiddy told me he was thinking of quitting his job for a more lucrative one, I did what every good mate would do in the same situation….. and tried my darnedest to convince him to stay.

“what about the great staff discounts”
“what about all the pretty girls in the cosmetics dept”
“what about the opportunities for promotion”
“what about the fact you’re working in an iconic building”
“what about – the subsidised staff canteen for Christ’s sake!!“

Of course, Billy very selfishly took up the life changing opportunity, leaving me to lope around as a lone-wolf once more, although I used to regularly meet my mate Joe Hunter on a Friday and we’d head to Paddy’s Market to get our outfits for the weekend.
If ever clothes required a splash of aftershave, it was those ones!

As enjoyable as all those lunch times were back then, you knew the pleasure was temporary, you always had an enemy – the clock!

As you get older and escape the constraints of the clock, lunch offers a great social opportunity to catch up with friends and family and the lunches I look forward to the most now are the leisurely ones you have on holiday. Looking out at a sun-splattered, turquoise ocean, with a cold beer or a chilled glass of wine accompanied with never-ending portions of seafood or salty tapas… living in the moment with nothing to rush back for.

All hail lunch….

*MUSIC, Comedy, School, Social life, Teenage Years

sing-a-long-a-jackie (volume #1)

January 17, 2022 onceuponatime70s 2 Comments

(Post by Colin ‘Jackie’ Jackson of Glasgow – January 2022)

I’ve never really been one for paying much attention to song lyrics. It’s all about the music and beats for me. And let’s be honest, in some cases, especially so in The Seventies, the words were pretty random; nonsensical sentences existing only to enhance the cadence and rhythm of the song – look no further than the brilliant Marc Bolan if you don’t believe me.

So, reflecting some of our life experiences from The ’70s, I thought I’d try my hand at lyric writing. I mean, how hard can it be?

(Pretty damned hard, actually. Maybe Marc had it sussed, right enough.)

I suggest hitting the ‘play’ button on the video and then following the alternative lyrics written below – that way you may just be able to get it all to scan. Maybe.

DRUNKEN NORMAN

Original / Proper version: ‘Cousin Norman.’

Written by; Hughie Nicholson

Performed by: Marmalade

Released: September 1971

Highest UK Chart position: #6

In the village, by the bus stop,

There’s an Off-Sales selling fortified wine,

Carlsberg Special and Breaker Lager

Under eighteens getting served all the time.

So if you’re passin’ close by, please

Don’t tell our dads we’re buying secretly.

In the forest, by the oak tree,

Stash the bevvy in the bushes over there.

We’ll drink it later. Before the disco.

No-one will steal it, they’re not brave enough to dare.

So if you’re passin’ close by, please

Keep on walking, we’re just kicking leaves.

Oh Oh Oh Oh excited for the disco

Sinking cans of beer will stop me being so shy

Oh Oh Oh Oh excited for the disco

The girls are gonna fall for this cool and gallus guy!

Dooya doodn doo doo doo Dooya doodn doo doo doo

Doo doo doo doo doo doo.

Hold a deep breath, get past the teachers

I’m in the disco, ready for a dance.

I’ll be groovy, I’ll be funky,

Play it cool, I’ll be in with a chance.

So if you’re dancin’ close by, please

Watch in wonder as the wee man pulls with ease.

Oh Oh Oh Oh I’m feelin’ nauseous

The hall is spinning round and I think I might be sick

Oh Oh Oh Oh I’m feelin’ nauseous

“Thank you for the dance.” I stagger to the toilets, quick!

Oh Oh Oh Oh sat in Head Teacher’s office

Puke stains on my shirt and splashes all over my shoes

Oh Oh Oh Oh sat in Head Teacher’s office,

The girls are all disgusted. I’ve no chance now – I lose.

__________________________

CAMPING UP THE HOOPLE

Original / Proper version: ‘All The Young Dudes.’

Written by: David Bowie

Performed by: Mott the Hoople

Released: September 1972

Highest UK Chart position: #3

Billy crapped all night in the countryside,

Scout Camp enteritis in ‘Seventy-five

Latrine jive,

(Best avoid the dive, if you wanna stay alive.)

Henry’s bloody, gashed foot will leave a scar,

Freddy’s badly aimed knife, a throw too far. Or not far enough –

Freddy’s eyesight’s really duff.

Scout Leader man is crazy

Says we’re going on a long, long trek,

Oh Man, I need Imodium, or clean … kecks.

Oh brother, you guessed, I’m in a mood now!

All the young crew

Running into

The Portaloo queue

(What a To-Do.)

(REPEAT)

Jimmy looks a pratt dressed in fluorescent green

(“Mummy says on treks I should ‘stay safe, stay seen’”)

But we just laughed.

Oh yeah, we just laughed!

And our buddies back at home

Would rather die alone,

We’d not be seen dead in that bright luminous stuff.

Such a drag,

It’s not our bag.

“OK Boy Scouts – form a line, and don’t dare whine!

The Crazy Scout Leader said,

“Oh! It’s only twelve miles all around.”

(Our guts filled with dread.)

Oh brother you guessed, I’ll be crude, now:

All the subdued,

Ignored the taboo

As they puked or they pooed

In the Portaloo queue.

(REPEAT TO FADE)

(I’ve wanted to do this for years.)

_____________________

School

a punishing exercise.

January 2, 2022 onceuponatime70s Leave a comment

(Post by Colin ‘Jackie’ Jackson from Glasgow – January 2022)

I loved my school years. I enjoyed the social and sporting opportunities it offered me.

I suppose I was reasonably well behaved during time at Bearsden Academy. Only on a handful of occasions did I merit punishment by ‘the tawse,’ a two or three tailed leather strap slapped down on a pupil’s palm by the teacher.

No, I’d say I was probably more of a Second Division miscreant compared to some. The penalties though, for the lesser misdemeanours I would be busted for, usually involved tedious ‘punnies’ – punishment exercises.

Oh how I longed for promotion to the Premier League of Naughty on many an evening, stuck in my bedroom writing out six hundred word interpretations of a scene from a Bertolt Brecht play. Or copying the Periodic Table with all those daft wee numbers, letters and I think, colours. Had I been given a couple strokes of the tawse, teacher and I would have been quits. I may not have fancied playing wicket-keeper in a game of cricket up at the pylon, but the warm and sultry summer evening would have been mine.

Those type of punny were given by fair minded teachers with (a) not enough justification to give the belt, but (b) a degree of imagination and hope that the exercise would be an aid to learning.

The majority however were not so creative, and routinely demanded ‘x’ number of lines, repeatedly reminding me of why I was not out in the street playing kerby with my pals.

(‘x’ would ordinarily be anything from one hundred to five hundred, unless being punished by the maths teacher, when you had to work out the value of ‘x’ for yourself – with more lines to follow if you got it wrong!)

‘I must not talk in class.’

‘I must remember to bring my homework.’

‘My homework wasn’t eaten by my dog – I don’t have one.’

Mind numbing stuff, that.

I did once attempt the Beano-esque trick of binding several pens together with an elastic band and thereby writing three lines at a time. It’s not as easy as it looks! I think the expression these days would be: ‘hashtag fail.’

Instructed to write the line ‘I must write larger,’ by my English teacher, the little smart-ass in me decided to write them on a piece of paper cut to a shade bigger than a postage stamp. Fifty lines to each side.

It took me ages! Far longer than had I written such a simple line in my normal, or even slightly larger, handwriting. Miss Hunter also made this observation the following morning as she immediately scrunched up my miniscule paper and laughing, tossed it in the bin below her desk.

She’s laughing with me, not at me. She must fancy me!

(All us second year lads were not only overloaded with raging hormones, but also suffered delusional episodes.)

I’d sometimes chance my luck and submit the punny a good few lines short. It didn’t really matter that omitting ten, twenty lines, whatever, would save me only a matter of minutes – it was the challenge of getting one over the teachers. I mean, hadn’t they far more important things to do with their time than count the words / lines?

Looking back, I’m certain I didn’t dupe any of them, but as it happened, everyone was a winner: teacher had asserted authority; cocky and rebellious pupil believed they had made a fool of teacher.

Truth was, teacher just couldn’t be arsed.

I did though, and sometimes still do, wonder at the randomness of the punishment. It would certainly have helped us pupils had we known the exact tariff for certain misdemeanours. Like when did a ‘one hundred lines’ penalty blur into three hundred? Or five?

For instance, had I known I would get three of the belt from the Assistant Head for merely being caught holding a snowball, I’d have made damned sure I quickly offloaded it at the head of the dude who’d just creamed me with one moments earlier. You know – like Pass the Parcel at kids’ parties – just get rid as soon as it’s in your hands.

Yeah, maybe some teachers were a bit quick on the draw with the tawse. And maybe some did abuse it. And yeah, it probably has no place in the society we live in today.

I didn’t mind though. My mum was a teacher in a pretty rough part of Glasgow, and would show me her Lochgelly belt. She claimed not to have used it very often, but I do know she had absolutely no sympathy when I told her I’d been given a short, sharp reminder as to my behaviour in class.

(I think my ol’ man was secretly rather pleased … in the absence of National service like he had to endure, this would instil some discipline, and develop character.)

I suppose I could have just kept my head down during the six years of secondary school and come through it all with an unblemished behavioural reputation. But only five feet four inches at the height of my academic achievements, anything that could further shorten my appearance was a non-starter.

And you know what? If there’s one thing discipline at school taught me, it’s that writing sentences of up to nine words long, one hundred times over, is a dawdle.

This article, for example, amounts to only 952 words. That’s just marginally more than your average ‘punny.’ Granted, it may also be just as entertaining as one – I’ve not had much sleep over this New Year holiday.

So, anyway, it’s over to you, dear reader ….anyone like to write the equivalent of a hundred lines?

Or do I have to get the belt out??!!

_________________

Once Upon a Time in The '70s