Chapter 10

‘Golden Years  (Whup whup whup)’  -  Sixth Form

There seems to be some strange quirk in the space-time continuum when the dial is set to the two year period 1975 to 1977.  The overload warning light is flashing as an apparent multitude of events and experiences tumble rapidly out of the memory banks, overlapping, overwhelming, exciting, upsetting, intoxicating and formative, full of friendships, decisions and directions that have lasted a lifetime.  A structured chaos that paved the way to leaving home and striking out alone, barely ready for the new challenges, but just about confident enough to think the next steps would work out okay.

How was so much crammed into such a short period, all playing out to the exciting soundtrack of the most dynamic music scene ever experienced?   With a bit of cash in our pockets, a pint in our hand, a girl on our arm (rarely), and the occasional adult prepared to engage with us on an equal footing, it was a time when study, sport, sounds and socials merged into a kaleidoscope of life-forming encounters.  Did we appreciate it at the time?  Or did we just unknowingly take our good fortune for granted and respond to each day or week as they unfolded?

There’s only one way to answer these questions and that’s to once again travel back in time, seeking a framework on which to organise all the random echoes, memories and facts.  It’s probably reasonable to pick the one common thread, steadfast and unmoving during the period, and use it as a skeleton from which to hang everything else off.  Permeating our daily lives, dictating the weekly rhythms, setting the annual milestones, sucking us in at the start and spewing us out two years later, was the sixth-form of Bramcote Hills Comprehensive.  Let’s use this dominant theme as a guide and follow where it takes us.

Listening to Radio One over breakfast in early September 1975, quietly anticipating a return to school after the summer in my new guise as sixth-former, I’d have been uninspired. ‘Sailing’ by Rod Stewart, the rocker who ‘sold-out,’ was being played continuously and the singles chart that day was full of standard pop (Leo Sayer was ‘Moonlighting’), dire middle-of-the-road mush (Roger Whittaker), and comedy songs (Jasper’s ‘Funky Moped’).   Feeling superior about our own musical tastes, we had to slide further down the charts and DJs’ playlists before encountering something to find appealing and match the inspirational mood we needed for our first encounter with A-Levels.  Bowie’s ‘Fame’ was at number 17, though I doubt many of us had that objective in mind as we headed for school that morning.  Probably Bad Company sitting at Number 37 with ‘Feel Like Making Love’ was more relevant for a 16 year-old youth, although this topic covered a lot of subject matter still only at the theoretical stage of understanding.

There weren’t too many benefits accompanying our arrival in the sixth-form.  The lads could wear a different tie and a plain jacket rather than the school blazer; we could use the main front entrance, and didn’t have to register.  But the luxury of a common room didn’t exist so we had to hang out in a designated classroom, and ‘private study’ sessions between lessons took place in the assembly hall.  This was anything but private and usually involved priorities like a joint assault on the NME crossword or letting John Craven copy my Geography homework answers whilst I tried to obtain enlightenment on some maths topic from one of the clever dicks like ‘Trelly’ Trelfa or ‘Tiggle’ Hadfield.

My A-Level choices had been decided by a process of elimination.  Despite the allure of Pam Marshall, the French teacher, I recognised my linguistic limitations, and the prospect of another two years dissecting Shakespeare and classical literature was scary enough to make it an easy decision to close the door on ‘Languages.’  Equally, whilst I was interested in science, I didn’t quite get it.  It was easy to understand that it might open a range of career paths but it was difficult for me to actually understand how it worked.  I kind of grasped the principles and big ideas but struggled with the formulas and theories that created them; these were really subjects for the class brain-boxes.  To do Art you needed to be a Picasso or a Henry Moore which left just Geography, History, Economics and Maths. History didn’t make the cut as Economics sounded considerably more modern and something different, and Geography seemed like it might be easy with the added attraction of a field-trip or two.  Everyone advising me said ‘you need Maths’ so that made the final choice straightforward.  The reality is that for most university or career paths you actually didn’t need maths but that wasn’t the received wisdom at the time.

I’ve no idea how I would make a choice of just three subjects these days with the extra options on the list that now includes Sport, Sociology, Photography and Psychology.

There was a significant step change in workload, complexity and difficulty, but on balance I was happy with my choices.  If you’ve got to study something then Geography was at least interesting.  The physical side, with its emphasis on the geological forces that shaped our landscape, was something I could easily relate to; a family walk in the Peak District, a Cornish holiday, or just watching the changing weather patterns on a particular day, all provided easily accessible confirmation of what we were learning.  The new theory of plate tectonics had been included in our syllabus for the first time and Tim Taylor, the teacher, explained how, only a year or two earlier, the idea of continental drift was ridiculed by many academics.  The Human Geography side of things was rather dull but nevertheless helped add to a growing general knowledge.  Populations, migrations, growth of cities, central business districts and transport networks were typical of the subject matter.  There was a lot to take-in and the essays needed to be structured and longer but on the whole I could deal with it.

Economics was a welcome change with its strange mixture of theories, statistics and formulae all wrapped up in practical examples from recent history or the daily news bulletins. Keith Egerton, still wearing his corduroy suits, (see chapter Teach Your Children), enthusiastically dragged us through Supply and Demand Curves, Marginal Costing and Pricing, scribing endless intersecting lines on graphs he’d drawn on the board.  Whilst we were exploring Wages Theory, Trade Laws, and Exchange Rates the UK economy was in trouble and the Labour government was making no improvement on the state of affairs they’d inherited from Ted Heath a year earlier. The same year that the Sex Discrimination and Equal Pay Acts became law, the miners received a 35% wage rise, inflation was at 25% and unemployment had reached 1,250,000.  Meanwhile, the US was slamming non-tariff barriers on the UK, even trying to thwart Concorde flights, whilst at the same time, 67% of us were merrily voting to confirm EU membership.  It was another subject I could comfortably get my head around and it wasn’t as essay-intensive as Geography; in fact, the homework and tests usually involved multiple-choice questions which gave you a fighting chance of a good mark.

It was a different story with Maths as we were plunged into a bewildering world of calculus, integration, mechanics and trigonometry.  The quality of teaching was decidedly mixed (see Merlin chapter for an opinion on Porter) and keeping up depended on a later focus on the text book, my scratchy notes, or help from a brainier fellow.  It might have been okay if tests had only required the answer: my new Casio scientific calculator could deliver a result if I remembered the correct button pushing sequence.  The problem was that it usually was necessary to show the process that led to the answer.  For most of the two years, I was one of a growing bunch of us who slowly found ourselves fighting a difficult defensive action as we slipped closer to the final exam reckoning.

Studies were not the highest priority.  The usual chatter in the morning would revolve around the previous evening’s viewing; thinking ourselves hardcore Monty Pythoners we favourably reviewed the opening of Fawlty Towers and tried to make sense out of the chaotic comedy Rutland Weekend Television, both of which launched that autumn.  On a weekly basis there’d be a short put-down of the TOTP line-up, unless by some miracle a decent rock act had sneaked onto the show; and it was mainly watched for the Legs and Co performance.  Our Tuesday night highlight was ‘Whispering’ Bob and The Old Grey Whistle Test, about the only chance we had to view rock acts on the small screen.  It usually required a tactful negotiation to persuade parents it wasn’t on too late and that they didn’t really need to watch some drama or current affairs programme instead.  And occasionally, just because we were teenage boys and that’s what we sometimes did, there’d invariably be a regular brief discussion around various other TV programmes that featured a female characters who had caught our attention.  Poldark and The Good Life, Demelza or Barbara, the brunette from Pans People, for example?

Some things hadn’t yet changed.  I was fully immersed in swim training (see Chapter 5.45 am), training every morning and evening and racing most Saturdays.  Fellow county swimmer, Mick Parker, and I couldn’t hang out with the others much during the week, having to be disciplined to make time for homework and avoid falling asleep in lessons.  It was our last year before Open Men’s racing and the distant targets were the Midland and National Championships the following summer.  Social life was a blend of my two lives but I was on temporarily rocky ground having recently been dumped by Speedo heiress, Helen Lovett, and not quite ready to cast around for a new girl. Subconsciously I’d also probably started to rationalise the impracticalities of seeking a girl friend who lived the other side of the city, and anyway, the other girl swimmers I quite fancied were already hooked-up or too closely chaperoned.  It wasn’t a big deal: the absence of a girl friend at the time didn’t dilute the fun of swim squad parties and away coach trips.

As the darkening nights drew 1975 to a close, Bowie was again climbing the charts with ‘Golden Years’ passing a descending Roxy Music ‘Love is the Drug’ and 10CC 'Art for Art’s Sake’, beacons of light amongst the steady stream of manufactured pop that included the Bay City Rollers, Mud and Hot Chocolate.  Already embedded in the Number One spot, where it would stay for months, was ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’: who would have guessed back then that this song would turn into such an enormous iconic anthem over the decades to come?  We were more interested in albums.  ‘Tubular Bells’ had outstayed its welcome and finally, after several years, was on the way out.  And although Pink Floyd tried hard, ‘Wish You Were Here’ didn’t quite match up to expectations.  We’d dabble with the latest ELP, Yes, Wishbone or Santana albums, the new softer Californian sounds of The Eagles, or a bit of retro with The Doors, but Heavy Rock was still where we were most comfortable.  Deep Purple, Rainbow, Budgie, Judas Priest and inevitably Led Zep ruled the roost, whilst something of a one-off  ‘Frampton Comes Alive’ sat in the album charts for months.

There were more dark clouds about to blow over.  Mum’s deteriorating health made for a difficult Christmas and January and February passed in a sad whirl of emotions (see Always chapter).  The routine of school and swimming and the stability of the friends provided the support systems necessary to re-emerge from the fog.  Within a few weeks, seemingly turbo-driven in response to events at home, I’d broken the Men’s County record for both 200m and 400m Individual Medley, run for Notts at the National Cross-Country Championships in Brighton, and had a week’s holiday at Easter with swim friends in a dilapidated Snowdonia cottage.  I’d also decided to see if Alison Kirk might go out with me.

Sport in the sixth-form was still encouraged but at least we weren’t forced onto a frozen rugby field against our will.  A few of my mates were playing club football on Saturdays and we were always up for a kick around somewhere but the gym, track or pitch afternoon lesson had been replaced by some off-site options.  Some chose golf or ten-pin bowling whilst I headed to my second home, the Bramcote Leisure Centre, to try my hand at the new and increasingly popular squash.  Amongst the group were a few girls including Alison Kirk, who I’d hardly come across before; she’d been on the languages side of subject selection and our different embryonic social groups hadn’t really merged in earlier years.  But things were changing: her twin sister, Jane, and friends, Katherine Homer and Lynne Pike, were doing Geography with us.  Their circles of friends had moved on from worshipping David Cassidy and Donny Osmond and were more like budding art college students with their musical tastes, fashion styles and opinions which increasingly brought them into alignment with my group of mates.  Amidst a mixture of mild teasing and testing of the water, the two groups found a mutual harmony that distinguished us as a bunch,  safely situated just to the edgy side of normal, neither nerdy or boring mice-like swots, nor unpredictable, too-big-for-their-boots rebels.  Hanging around the unofficial common room, working on the new sixth-form school magazine ‘Eric’ (How did it get that name?) or just sprawled outside on the grass on the odd sunny day, it was fun to chat and flirt with them for a while before drifting back to the safety of the exclusive company of your mates. 

Alison was quieter, more studious, than most in her group and maybe her nature didn’t scare me as much as the more flirty, extravert ones.   Anyway we started going out and over the spring and summer enjoyed a happy mix of parties, meaningfully deep teenage conversations, and a lot of snogging in her kitchen, my bedroom or on the long walk between Bramcote and Chilwell, where she lived.  Prepared to ask about feelings and discuss memories of Mum, she possibly helped the emotional recovery, though I’m not really sure what she made of being ‘fitted in’ around all the swimming commitments.  We’d navigated our way around the summer exams, enjoyed the first part of the holidays, hanging out together in the park or at someone’s house.  I even remember watching some of the Montreal Olympics at her home a day or two before she headed off to Germany for a summer placement.  That was effectively it.  Whilst the rest of us sweltered in the Summer of ’76 heatwave and I produced only a moderate performance at the Nationals in Leeds, she was coming to the conclusion that my time was up. The writing was on the wall as the letters from Germany dried up. They weren’t the only things drying up; after 15 consecutive days with temperatures over 32 degrees, the Government appointed a Minister for Drought.  By the end of August, massive storms had broken the drought and I’d been politely jettisoned by Alison.

It would be rewarding to think that by this time we were developing awareness and some independent opinion on events affecting people beyond the confines of our small, comfortable environment.  However, diversity wasn’t a word that could be applied to the school, and events elsewhere generated only a mild interest.  The audacity of the daring Entebbe hostage raid was more memorable to me at the time than Dennis Healey propping up the economy with a £2.3 billion loan from the IMF, the 10,000 women marching for peace in Belfast, or shamefully,  the black school kids being shot dead on the streets of Soweto.

Our final year was heralded in that September by Thin Lizzy’s ‘The Boys Are Back In Town.’  We marched through the school gates, revelling finally in making it to the top of the pupil pyramid.  At the front of the line, leading in name only, were the newly elected Head Boy and his Deputies: me, Jeff and Ian ‘Dickie’ Dunbar.  I don’t recall mounting any grand election campaign for the top position but clearly must have expressed a keenness for high office, probably wanting the kudos of the role and fancying having my name carved on the large wall-mounted wooden plaque in the entrance hall.  This wasn’t a priority for most of my fellows and I suspect they were sensibly happy that someone else was prepared to take it on.

It wasn’t actually that onerous; sit at the back of the stage during Assembly, rather than standing with the masses down on the hall floor, and make the odd announcement about House sport fixtures or the timing of after-school drama rehearsals.  Apart from a token appearance at the governors’ meetings and the need to co-ordinate the Summer Fair there were only a few occasions that required a bit of an effort.  For example the school had a policy that prevented pupils from picking and choosing what sports they wanted to represent the school in.  In other words, the school team came first, so if you’d made yourself unavailable for a rugby match for some reason, then you wouldn’t be chosen for the cricket or basketball teams later in the year.  I’d personally come across this rule a few years earlier when Dai Williams originally objected to me swimming for the County one Saturday in preference to turning out for his rugby team.  Let’s face it, I was hardly a vital cog!  But he dug his heels in and it needed an intervention from the ASA and Ben Lyons, the Head, before he saw sense.  When he noticed the Evening Post swim report the following week, it was as if nothing had happened and it was never an issue for me going forward.  But for big Kev Snow it wasn’t as straightforward.  He’d stopped playing school rugby when he started a Saturday job but later in the year he was keen to represent us at basketball as the fixtures were midweek.  The PE staff upheld the policy but we all felt it outdated and unfair so I was dispatched off to Ben’s office to argue the case.  Perhaps it’s as well that I haven’t pursued a law career as I achieved absolutely nothing in the negotiations other than a venting of our feelings.

I can look back now with amusement at the time I was summoned to Ben’s office to explain what I knew about a letter of complaint received from Skills Coaches one of the local bus hire companies.  They were clearly annoyed that the coach we’d hired to get to and from a sixth-form party in town had ended up with puke on several seats and the driver had needed to wait half-an- hour after dropping everyone off at 1am to ensure one of the worse-for-wear lower-sixth girl’s parents had turned up to take her home safely.  At the time, Ben clearly was not impressed and it was strongly suggested I write a letter of apology.  He also might have struggled with the humour that bus tickets for the event were issued with the daft words:  ‘Well that’s great because BUS 1 is made entirely of wood’ and ‘I married a chocolate cake on BUS 2.’  Don’t ask me, I’ve no idea who came up with this?  Martin? Jeff??

Those sixth-form parties were quite radical and I’m not sure would be repeatable these days.  Bear in mind, 75% of the attendees would be below eighteen and there’d also inevitably be a handful of sixteen year-old girls from the Fifth Year, which meant that most of us were under-age. Presumably Tiffany’s or The Sandpiper turned a blind eye when accepting the booking; they certainly didn’t mind selling us beer, Babychams and Cinzanos at extortionate prices and most of us were in varying stages of inebriation by the end of the night. A few of the younger staff would also show up - they were probably only in their early twenties but must have felt slightly awkward, watching their daytime charges steadily getting more pissed.  Luckily for everyone involved, these were the days before mobile-phone cameras; the thought of the evidence appearing on social media the following morning would have been embarrassing for some and potentially career limiting for others.  These were fun, sweaty events with full-on disco lights, sticky floors and music so loud it was impossible to chat anyone up.  The couples found cosy corners, the single girls danced all night and the single boys stood around watching and drinking until the DJ played an acceptable rock track deemed okay for a foray onto the floor.  ‘Brown Sugar;’ ‘Alright Now;’ ‘My Generation;’ ‘Satisfaction;’ ‘Let’s Spend The Night Together…’  Towards the end ‘Honky Tonk Woman’ would pull most onto the floor before ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ would have everyone in a big circle, arms linked and legs kicking, can-can style.   Finally, inevitably, the smoochy erection-section of a few slow songs would offer the last chance to hook-up with any girl who seemed interested. It might even result in a final snog and in your half-cut state you’d contemplate why you’d waited all evening or, conversely, whether you’d regret it in the days to come.

With swimming intensity reduced, now that I’d accepted the fact I was never going to be good enough to make the international scene, and had throttled right back down to Club level (see 5:45am), I suddenly had more time on my hands.  Some of this  certainly needed allocating to the increasing A-Level workload but it still left a handy surplus to be focused elsewhere.  A particular distraction from the looming threat of the encroaching exams was our growing awareness of the local music scene.  Several times a month, a few of us would venture into town on the bus for the evening, cough up our 50p to get in to one of the pub venues, and try and make a couple of pints last all night.  Like most hostelries offering live music, The Imperial was small, sweaty, crowded and the sound was probably desperate.  On the other hand, it was intimate.  The stage was close, the band and audience almost mingling; it was possible to see how they played and feel a rapport.  Our town, our bands, our pubs, our sounds.  It wasn’t possible to hear these groups or their songs on the radio, so you had to be there. 

Perfect for that time and place were my two favourites, Plummet Airlines and Gaffa.  The Plummets, fronted by the guttural voice and songs of Harry Stephenson had been around the pub-rock scene for several years, had the odd track played by John Peel but never got a proper record deal.  Gaffa, playing a lighter rock, with often subtle social messages, their short, snappy, clever songs deserved a wider national audience.  We were regulars at their gigs, assuming naturally that vocalist, Wayne Evans, with his frog-shaped bass, or impressive lead guitar, John Maslin, would recognise us. At least they managed to produce an album. ‘Neither Use Nor Ornament’ came out in 1977 and was a vintage collection of some of their best.  Compared to the dross still occupying the charts, it was raw, and real and the track ‘OAP Sightings’  is as relevant today as it was 40 years ago. (Find it on Spotify)

‘The furniture from the owd ‘ouse looks wrong ‘ere in the flat.   Had to leave behind a lot of it.

Tried to smuggle in his dog, but them upstairs shopped it and the caretaker copped it

Oh, if he was 40 years younger, if he was 30 years younger he wouldn’t be ‘ere

But he ain’t, so he is, up 23 flights of stairs

This is his high-rise handshake for all them donkey’s years

‘If I was 50 years younger’ he tells the girl in the Post Office where he draws his pension,

‘You wouldn’t be lookin’ so sad; it was nowt like this when I was a lad.’

Down on his allotment grows a fresh crop of concrete and he’s never sees the neighbours unless he has a problem.

Knock at the door but it’s nobody visiting, encyclopaedia salesman, Joseph Witness, but nothing out of the ordinary

He blames the weather on the rockets that they’re sending to the stars.

If things don’t change they’ll ‘ave to stay as they are.

The autumn of 1976 rolled steadily towards Christmas, although the weekly routine was broken in October by a geography field trip to Swanage. Staying in a guest house, we’d walk the hills, cliffs and beaches of Purbeck during the day, dutifully noting the chalk features, coastal erosion and human impact.  If we could manoeuvre our lunch spot to be near a pub where we could wash down our packed sandwiches then so much the better and neither of the two teachers accompanying ever objected.  We were on an even longer rein during the evening: straight after the evening meal and a token effort at writing up any notes, a bunch of us would wander off into the main part of Swanage and spend a couple of hours drinking and playing darts.  One particular night was stormy, the sea was crashing against the sea wall and spraying the adjacent promenade.  Demonstrating that we’d either had too much drink or were just plain daft, we ran back along the sea wall, dodging the waves in the dark.  The consequences for the staff and school if something had gone wrong don’t bear thinking about.  We didn’t totally escape without chastisement; the guest house was tolerant but they did draw the line and complain after one night when we stayed up late, undoubtedly noisily chatting, playing Pink Floyd or something on someone’s cassette and generally pratting about.  I think a delegation apologised in the morning.  Other evenings included staying up late to watch James Hunt clinch the World Championship by winning the Japanese Grand Prix in an horrendous downpour and catching the bus across the Poole harbour ferry for a night out in Bournemouth.  It clearly was more of a holiday than we realised at the time.

A first Christmas without Mum was strange but with the increasingly strong support network of friends I weathered it.  I suspect I probably watched the Christmas Top of The Pops, passing derogatory remarks about most of the music.  Johnny Mathis was number one with a seasonal number, and Showaddywaddy’s ‘Moon of Love’ and Abba’s ‘Money, Money, Money’ made up the top three.  Of much more interest was a new entry that wasn’t on the show; a band called The Sex Pistols had appeared in the Top 40 with a provocative, challenging title ‘Anarchy in the UK.’  Unbeknown to us at the time, it would herald in a whole new, exciting music scene.

Something else was also brewing. Down by the Trent, almost unnoticed, Cloughie was beginning to work his magic. New signings Woodcock and Withe were spearheading an attacking style of play that had us within sight of a promotion spot as the year drew to a close.  We dared to dream, going to the games whenever we had the chance, including a Boxing Day away trip to Bolton with me driving our Maxi.  ‘Thank-you Dad,’  especially as I’d only passed my driving test, that obligatory right-of- passage for sixth-formers, a few months earlier.  That had been a nervous day, the pressure compounded by the knowledge that all my friends seem to have passed first time.

The New Year brought in a new word: ‘UCAS.’  A sizeable chunk of us were planning on going to University, Polytechnic or Teacher Training College and therefore needed to get our heads around the admissions process.  What subject, where, and how, all required us to think beyond the next few months.  We had some guidance from teachers and I was fortunate that Dad and some educated family friends could also offer advice.  A clincher for me was that an old boy, Steve Farr, from two years above us re-visited the school to tell us about his university experience: he was studying Commerce at Birmingham and painted an appetising picture that blended sport, socialising and study.  I obtained a prospectus, took myself off on the train for an open-day, thought it looked just what I wanted and entered it on my UCAS form along with similar courses at Southampton and Manchester.  There was, however, a complication which ultimately resulted in Birmingham occupying the number two slot.  Ben Lyons was of the opinion I could go to Cambridge and recommended me to apply to St John’s College to ‘read’ Economics.  Dad took me there for my first ever interview with a few learned professors and, despite my bumbling answers, they made me an offer:  Two As and a B. (Note - I’m not saying there has been grade erosion over the years but getting an ‘A’ in 1976 was usually only possible for the exceptionally clever kids).  Despite my doubts, and not convinced that Cambridge was the scene I wanted, I was talked into accepting the offer by those around me who saw Oxbridge as the pinnacle of the academic world and a passport to success in the wider world.  They may well have been right but they didn’t appreciate just how hard I was finding Maths.

By the time we did our mocks in March it was evident to everyone; I managed an ‘E’ and it was a similar depressing result for most of the class.  But apart from trying to revise harder and retrospectively acquire some level of comprehension, it was too late to do much about it.  What would be would be.  There were some distractions from the countdown to exams: the classic Centenary Test in Melbourne in March had provided a remarkable performance from the young maverick Notts batsman, Derek Randall.  I listened through the night on my transistor radio to his defiant 174 in the face of fierce fast bowling from Lillee and Thompson that came so close to securing a memorable win.

Over Easter I’d gone to The Lakes with Nico, Sally Smith and sister, Jackie.  We caught the train, stayed in Youth Hostels and managed a nervous walk along Striding Edge in the mist. It proved a good tonic to offset my mild disappointment that neither Jackie Fontana nor Alison Booth had fancied the chance to go out with me.  I rationalised it as usual by assuming they wanted to focus on their looming exams.

The pending Maths disaster didn’t dampen spirits too much.   A browse through just some of the old tickets I’ve had in the loft for decades reveals a continual stream of 18th Birthday parties, including my own which was a shared ‘do’ with Mick Parker.  It seemed like every Saturday we would gather at a local rugby club or village hall, revel in our now legal drinking and encourage the DJ to abandon his normal playlist and stick on our favourite tracks.  Our expanding social group developed a weekend routine; Friday night we’d usually be found at the Top House (aka The White Lion) in Bramcote village, supping pints of Kimbo’s mild or bitter, chatting away whilst munching through a packet of pork scratchings or a small tub of cockles bought from the shellfish seller.  In one corner the fruit machine had been replaced by the new Space Invaders game although my 10p's didn’t last long, rarely getting beyond Level One in my efforts to blast the aliens.

Saturday daytime would usually be taken up with a part-time job, or spent down at the City Ground before we’d head out in the evening for the inevitable birthday bash, or sometimes in my case, the odd Club swim event.  That just left Sunday for study, taking breaks only to grab a biscuit, read through the Sunday papers and watch Star Soccer.  A day in the bedroom writing an essay or puzzling over quadratic equations was a dull but increasingly necessary requirement.  By the time tea was over and done with, thoughts turned to the evening options: stay in with Demelza, Barbara or the World About Us or rendezvous with the gang yet again, this time down at the newly established Moor Farm Inn only a 15 minute walk away. 

It had became a young person’s venue on Sunday night; we’d drag the small round tables and chairs together to accommodate our group, prime the juke box with our music and work our way through our drinks and crisps.  An additional treat was usually available from the Hot Box, a small grill in a corner offering burgers or hot dogs.  One of our mates, Martin Stiven, sometimes worked in the Hot Box and, whilst we might occasionally be allowed to queue jump, we never received any freebies.  In fact Martin’s subsequent confession reveals that we were lucky to avoid severe food-poisoning.  We’d briefly grumble about the homework overload, before enthusing about the rise of The Reds up the Second Division table or the exciting new Clash album, spearheading a political edge to the new punk sounds that were beginning to emerge.  People had a choice to make with punk; either turn it off, or get up and jump around; there was no middle-ground. Just listen to ‘White Riot’ that entered the charts on my birthday, with the sound turned up and you’ll know exactly what I mean.  Even the music press didn’t know what to make of it.  Melody Maker and Sounds were slow off the mark, reluctant to throw their weight behind these high-energy bands often formed by out-to-shock musicians who couldn’t really play or sing.  On the other hand the NME embraced it and became our guide to the changing scene.

Time seemed to be speeding up as the exams loomed closer but there was a handful of events that managed to break the revision monotony.  The most exciting was the nail-biting end to the football season with Forest pulling off a late smash and grab to claim the final promotion place (see Mist Rolling In.. chapter).  Meanwhile Jeff and Dickie Dunbar who had been managing the sixth-form entertainment kitty all year had realised, with time running out, that we might end the year with a surplus.  With a flash of inspiration they organised a subsidised coach trip to Blackpool and over half the year group took up the offer.  Inevitably after football on the beach, riding the Big Dipper in the funfair, a bag of chips and a boozy evening in The Bierkeller it was a fragile bunch of survivors who got back on the coach for the bilious journey home.  At some point during the day I’d tried ingratiating myself with Denise but she wasn’t really interested and paid far more attention to Ian.  After a few steins of cheap lager I had put that setback behind me.

Then on June 7th, with complete disregard for thousands of her 18 year-old subjects, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth gave us all a day off to enjoy street parties to celebrate her Silver Jubilee.  It would have been more fun if it wasn’t bang in the middle of the most important week of our lives but nonetheless provided an excuse to let off some steam.  Our end of Balmoral Drive did the honourable thing and we all dutifully celebrated her long and glorious reign with sponge cakes and orange squash.  No doubt we also toasted her ‘fascist regime’ later in The Top House.

One way or another, just like they always do, the exams came and went.  I felt okay about Geography and Economics but the Maths was as bad as I had feared.  There was nothing to be done now but enjoy the summer and forget about all things academic until mid-August when the results would arrive.

First stop was a boys’ trip to Cornwall.  I was aware of the Skewjack Surf Village, a cheap and cheerful holiday camp comprising of not a lot more than a few tarted-up Nissan huts with an outdoor pool, cheap bistro and disco.  Situated close to Sennen Cove, they provided boards, wetsuits, tuition and transport and I booked a load of us into a couple of caravans and a cabin.  We hired a minibus to get us down there, using the recently opened M5, and enjoyed a fun week. Some of us even managed to stand-up on our boards by the end of the week.

For the next few months I worked every hour I could get at the Pool in my Lifeguard job, played cricket on both Saturday and mid-week for a couple of local teams, and ventured down to Trent Bridge whenever I got the chance.  In late July, Dad and I watched the opening day of the Test match against the Australians.  Botham on debut took five wickets and Boycott ran out our local hero, Randall, before going on to make yet another boring century.  I’ve hated him ever since.

Elsewhere across the country there was trouble and tension.  Mary Whitehouse had stepped up her offensive on what she saw as declining morals.  Not content with challenging the swearing on Till Death Us Do Part, the innuendo of Chuck Berry’s ‘My Ding-a-ling’ and the ‘violence’ on Doctor Who, she was next taking on Gay News in the High Court for blasphemy.  More serious was the steady rise of the National Front with their provocative marches and racist agenda.  Whilst we basked through a summer of Cornish holidays, pub evenings and sport, to the sound of The Stranglers, Bob Marley, and Dire Straits, not a million miles away other sections of our society were fighting back.  In August, anti-racist street demonstrations in London had became known as The Battle of Lewisham and the Black and Asian communities had battled the police and National Front in Birmingham.

The envelope with my results arrived in the post. I was working at the pool and phoned Rick at home to tell him to open it. Two B’s and a D. I already knew Cambridge wasn’t going to happen but needed three Cs for Birmingham. Surely these grades would do it?

The following day the confirmation arrived and, as the summer wound down, the chapter closed on an intense, unforgettable two years.  Golden years.

Half a century later a bunch of us are still in regular touch.  Annual get-togethers, Forest’s tribulations, political views, the music scene past and present, other opinionated thoughts and humour, and a mutual shoulder whenever some support might be needed.  Whats App does have some benefits.