Huddersfield New College shared a 25 yards (20m) swimming pool with the two other schools on the combined site: Huddersfield High School (a girls-only grammar) and Salendine Nook Secondary Modern. The pool was made available as an afterschool club for HNC pupils who wished to improve their skills. Although not a competition level swimmer, I was most interested in another training offer – Personal Survival. This award was made at bronze, silver and gold medal levels, where the tasks to be completed were made progressively more difficult. I eventually achieved the top qualification. I recall that this included first retrieving a heavy object from the bottom of the pool. Then candidates had to jump in wearing pyjama bottoms over their trunks. The pyjamas had to be taken off in the water, the legs knotted at the end and then filled with air by sweeping the bottoms over your head. Thereby a flotation aid was produced and, if you had done this to the examiner’s satisfaction, you had passed the test. A copy of the certificate, recently relocated, is shown left.
74 Ainley Road
1959-1964
Ainley Road aerial picture giving an indication how the surroundings looked when we first moved in.
Weatherhill Road and Yew Tree Road were to be significant in my youth, as was the Halifax Road Playing Field & Birchencliffe Cricket Club.
The area to the right of Yew Tree Road was a building project for the first few years.
Yet Another Cold Toilet
Whilst our new house was superior in numerous ways to the one we had just left, we all still had to deal with freezing visits to the toilet. Although equipped with three bedrooms, there was no bathroom or toilet upstairs. At the beginning the single heating source was the front-room coal fire, which in turn warmed the back boiler of the domestic water supply. No-one could get a coal fire quickly alight like my mum; nevertheless most early mornings were chilly. We later switched to a gas fire in the front room, with a gas water heater in the kitchen. As neither central heating nor carpets ever featured in our domestic inventory, we all soon learned to congregate in the front room, keeping doors and windows closed to preserve the warmth.
The WC was situated next to the downstairs kitchen; it was fitted in a small square room off a short passage by the back door. Not that the kitchen itself was large. There was also a boxed-in bath squeezed into the kitchen area. This meant that the toilet was against an outside wall at the back of the house, definitely the coldest spot in the building. Perhaps this was a deliberate design consideration, to ensure that occupants did not linger at their ablutions.
The Lorry Cart Friends
I met a lifelong friend within a few days of arriving at Ainley Road, all courtesy of a lorry cart. I saw two lads shooting downhill past our house on their homemade vehicle. It consisted of a flat wooden platform supported by four pram wheels. Two large at the back with two small on the front. Steering was carried out by pulling left or right on a rope attached to the axle of the front wheels. I think that it had a rudimentary hand-controlled brake system of a pivoted pad acting on the back wheels. When in full motion the additional trusted heels-against-the-ground method of slowing down was definitely required. Nevertheless it was a truly magnificent, though somewhat perilous, contraption.
It wasn’t long before I started a conversation with the boys. Soon afterwards I also had a go on their vehicle, hoping that my mother wouldn’t catch sight of me zipping past the house. Apart from this occasion, I don’t recall ever getting the lorry cart out again. Perhaps we all realised that it was a liability.
My new friends were Graham and Raymond Illingworth, who lived in an unusual house attached to the local shop on Weatherhill Road. Painted in a rosy colour with a flat roof, Graham would delight in answering that he lived in “the first pink house without a roof at the top of Weatherhill”. (Their portion of the building was later bought by the owners of the shop, who then extended their business into the property). At the time of writing this shop – now with a standard roof design – continues to operate.
Although Graham was only three months younger than me, he was in the year behind me at school. At the time of our first meeting during the summer holidays, he was getting ready to join the first year at Huddersfield New College. I then, of course, would be joining the ranks of the experienced scholars, no longer the prime target for intimidation by older boys. We, in turn, would now have younger novices to look down on. Graham, however, was exempt from any disdain from me. For a start off, his father had one of the few cars in the district. He would often ferry us the mile and a half to school in the morning.
Graham remained my closest friend for decades. Indeed, he was eventually to marry Jacqui, the cousin of my wife Barbara. He got to know her on a holiday we had organised to Malta. When booking the trip, we asked them separately if they would like to come with us. Prior to this, they had never met, but we weren’t matchmaking. They just hit it off naturally without our intervention. Graham eventually moved with Jacqui to Derbyshire, whilst his younger brother Raymond settled through work in Devon when still in his twenties. Before this the brothers had played a major part in my youthful life at Ainley Road.
I now realise that Graham and Raymond’s family was what would later be called ‘upwardly mobile’. Their father worked in a managerial position for the Yorkshire Insurance company. Although Graham would often tell me that his father had been to see some local farmers that day, his job was obviously much more than that of a simple representative. In 1962 the family moved out to a most prestigious address in Huddersfield, No 1 Netheroyd Hill Road in Fixby, a large detached house with a private drive entrance and lavish established gardens. This switch would not have been cheap. It probably mirrored his father’s position at Yorkshire Insurance, but I never recall any of the family boasting about their situation. Fundamentally, they were middle-class, whereas we were working-class. Such a differentiation was a fact of life in those days. But Graham’s family never played on this. They recognised the closeness of our friendship and consequently included me in activities when they could.
It was an intrinsic fact of being English in those days that class played a defining role in life. One person had only to open their mouth and the other would form an immediate opinion about their status. Later, when home on leave from the RAF, the worst insult that could be paid to me on meeting old friends in Huddersfield was “Wotz tha torkin posh fer?”
Accent was assumed to signpost your general voting preference. Those speaking with a Yorkshire accent were taken to be working-class Labour supporters, whilst those with a permanent ‘telephone voice’ were seen as middle-class Conservatives. This is, of course, an oversimplification of the situation but the principle was accurate. In a working-class dominated town like Huddersfield they used to say that you could put a Labour Party red rose on a donkey and it would get elected. Certainly, during my earlier years I never considered voting anything other than Labour. (For the record, in my life I have voted for all the main parties – Labour, Conservative and Liberal – depending upon the prevailing situation. I remained your archetypal ‘floating voter’). To put this into context, I would like to repeat a saying passed to me by a close Soviet Russian friend who at the time was still a card-carrying member of the ruling Communist Party: “If you are 18 and not a socialist, you don’t have a heart. If you are 38 and remain a socialist, you don’t have a brain”.
Before the days of widespread flying away on foreign holidays, the Illingworth family did the next best thing. They bought a static caravan at Hollingworth Lake, just over the Lancashire border near Rochdale, to which they would travel most spring and summer weekends. They took me with them on several day trips. Although never a naturally avid fan of caravans, I thoroughly enjoyed the days out they provided for the boys and me.
Surprisingly – considering my earlier negative reactions to religion – I also accompanied the family to several Sunday evening services at the local Lindley Methodist Church. I remember getting dressed up for the events, where I recall that Graham’s mother was the more religiously inclined of his parents. I was never coerced into attending; I went willingly. The memory that sticks for me was that once the visitor giving the sermon was a master from Huddersfield New College, a coincidence that I found difficult to reconcile at the time. I didn’t think that teachers had private lives and interests. However, I was never anywhere near to getting converted by these visits. I believe that the reason for going with the family was to show support to Graham’s mother, who was always kind to me. Plus, there was a constant supply of sweets from Graham’s father’s pockets to keep us sustained during the service.
The family's front room at Weatherhill Road was the so-called 'best room'. As was the tradition in those times, it was not used for day-to-day living, just for visitors and special events. This was where Graham and Raymond laid out their train set, the saviour of many a rainy afternoon. The room also housed a piano, as their father was an accomplished pianist. Both boys took piano lessons; unfortunately to no avail. Graham became a drummer and Raymond a guitarist.
Graham’s father’s musical skills once came to save me from a situation for which, over fifty years later, I am still highly embarrassed. The boys used their musical talents as members of a locally assembled rock band. This was in the ‘Swinging 60s’ where every estate had an aspiring ensemble. The first singer for this group – me. After weeks of practice we played our first set at a local church hall, followed quickly by a lunchtime session at a local working men’s club. (The idea was to secure a paid booking on the club circuit if we were good enough). We started OK, getting through the first couple of songs fairly well. Then, for some unknown reason, I got 'microphone fever'. I started to ad-lib and told a couple of rude jokes. They went down like a lead balloon, as only a cocky 17 years old can achieve in front of an audience used to professional entertainment. After the next song, our electricity feed was cut and Graham’s father immediately started to play the club’s piano. His intervention saved the day for us. We quietly stowed away our kit and made ready to leave. By this time the room was joining in a singalong to his continued piano playing.
This was the last time I was to be the vocalist with this, or any, group. Frankly, I was a rubbish singer and an even worse comedian. The group went on to reform and enjoy a couple of years of local success playing regularly at venues around the district. And I had learned a valuable lesson in life, where my humiliation had been prevented by the instinctive intervention of Graham’s father. Regrettably, this fine man – a veteran of the World War 2 Arctic Convoys – was to pass away from stomach cancer in his early fifties, leaving Graham to step up as his mother’s constant aide.
A Sporting Life
If I had devoted as much time to my schoolwork as I did to playing all types of sport in my early teens, I would have fared much better in my school leaving examinations; this is without doubt. Anything connected with a ball and I would join in at any time. And the advantage of my location in Birchencliffe – with good playing fields within walking distance – meant that I had plenty of sporting opportunities. I quickly realised that, although I was a master of none, I enjoyed being a jack of all trades at games.
The mowed sloping field at the bottom of Ainley Road provided a local opportunity to play cricket with Graham and Raymond during the summer months, for example. As there were relatively few boys of my age on our small estate at the top of Weatherhill, I had to go down Yew Tree Road to the playing field on Halifax Road to join in games with greater participation. Although it was never organised, there was a group of around twelve lads of my age who would simply turn up daily – weather permitting – to take part in a kickabout (using coats as goals) or a cricket game (using a bin as wickets). I cannot remember who brought the balls or bats, but these somehow always appeared. In this way, we actively whiled away the school holidays and weekends outdoors.
Of course, I took part in physical education lessons at school, but I was not of a standard considered good enough to be even chosen for the house team at football, rugby or cricket (there were four such house divisions in Huddersfield New College setup). And the notion of ever being nominated to represent the school in any of these sports was totally out of the question. When selecting ad-hoc teams for games during lessons, my smaller stature ensured that I was normally one of the last to be picked, just ahead of the remaining overweight or totally disinterested candidates.
However, my active sporting lifestyle did have one advantage. I came in around tenth position in my year in one of the school’s annual cross country competitions. This, in turn, led to an offer to run as part of the school’s senior cross country team, as those better athletes from the run were already representing the college at other sports. I turned out for the team on several Saturday mornings, both home and away. My claim to fame: I never came last. I had one friend who would run with me and he made sure we never had to suffer the ignominy of trailing in at the back.
Interestingly, when I joined the RAF a few years later I was shocked to discover the lack of fitness in my fellow recruits. This was borne out by the fact that during basic training I came third in the flight’s five-mile run. The airman who came first was a county-standard long distance athlete, whilst the second placed runner – who just beat me on the run-in – was a Welsh rugby player with whom I was to play representative games later in my RAF career. What really impressed me was that these two – and a couple more who were behind me at the finish – were due to go on to be trained as specialist Physical Training Instructors. I was to be a Linguist. Without doubt the constant sports activities earlier in my youth had paid dividends here. But this didn’t alter the fact that the one part of later rugby training which I always hated was the start-of-season long distance run.
Before I settled on playing rugby, I was also involved intermittently with other sports:

- Advanced Swimming Club
- Birchencliffe Cricket Club
I became a member of the local cricket club’s newly formed junior side. I kept wicket for the team which won the local league knockout cup at the first attempt. I received a medal for this achievement which, I am pleased to say, I still have in my possession. The engraving states simply “BCC 1962”
but I know its significance.
I was also called upon to fill in as wicketkeeper for the club’s second team from time to time. Birchencliffe had a reputation for producing fast bowlers and standing behind the stumps could be quite daunting in the face of this onslaught. I was simply glad that I wasn’t in the batsman’s shoes. I recall that after my first game I showed my hands to another player; they were red raw from stopping the ball. He said “Didn’t you soak your leather glove inners? That will save your hands.”
No-one had ever told me. With this knowledge I was convinced that I was now a fully accredited member of the wicketkeeping fraternity.
The only permanent sports scar I have comes from playing for the second team at that time. A fast ball skipped off the batsman’s bat onto the top of my gloves and then straight up into my right eyebrow. A cut requiring seven stitches was inflicted. As I went down, I still vividly remember that someone shouted out “Catch the ball!”. We took our cricket very seriously in Yorkshire.
On the subject of the Yorkshire religion of cricket, I recall that I was once found guilty of a cardinal sin. I walked. That is, although being given 'not out' by the umpire for a claimed catch, I fully realised that the ball had in fact touched my bat on the way through. So I corrected his mistake and, putting the bat under my arm, walked off. The opposition were initially shocked, then broke into a spontaneous round of applause for my honesty. My team, however, were not so understanding. “Tha niva iva walks!”
I was repeatedly informed after the match. I continued to play cricket on and off in friendly games until I was 48, but would I do the same again? Probably.
- The Vanguards Football Team
I cannot recollect how my friends and I first got to be involved with this team run by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormons). Their characteristic church had been constructed further down the main road at the bottom of Birchencliffe, so there was a local connection there. The team, however, was made up of two elements: half from our playing field kickabout crew and the remainder came over from Halifax. Our manager was a young church leader from Huddersfield called Howard. Although representing the church, no determined effort was ever made to convert us. I think the fact that they had a functioning team in the local league bearing the name of the first Mormon group to settle Salt Lake City was all that they wanted at this time. My mother assisted by washing our green shirts every week, whilst Howard’s fan worship of Roy Orbison was to provide one of the highlights of my life.
Our combined team was surprisingly successful at first. One of the Halifax group was a clever footballer with a kick like a mule. We fed him the ball as often as we could, with positive results. After three or four matches we were unbeaten and joint top of our junior league. We then had to travel to play the other leading team, Shepley United. At first sight our opponents appeared to be fielding several oversized, overaged players. Or perhaps we were getting our excuses in early. They knew about our star player and proceeded to mark/kick him out of the game. The result: we lost around 5-0. It was a long, sorry journey home. Shepley went on to win the league by a margin and our team eventually settled for a mid-table position. I don’t think that the team continued the following year. I had gone over to playing rugby league and the Halifax group had said all along that they would only play for one season. But at least I had added football to my tally of sports variations.
Nearer the end of the season Howard asked if anyone would like to go with him to see Roy Orbison at the Leeds Odeon on 5 June 1963. I liked the singer, so I said yes, as did a few of my friends. Only when Howard received our tickets did he mention that Roy’s support act would be the Beatles. By the time of the concert, the group's unprecedented rapid climb in popularity had forced the running order to be rearranged. Roy Orbison now would end the first half and the Beatles would close the show. I thoroughly enjoyed the event, although if anyone ever asked had I seen the Beatles, I would reply that it was exactly that: the constant female screaming meant that I couldn’t actually hear their music. But see them live I most certainly had.
- The Harlock Tackle
Before starting out on my rugby odyssey, it’s worth mentioning the background to my introduction to the sport which was I was to go on to play for the nigh on the next 25 years.
There was a system in action at Huddersfield New College where an outstanding piece of work by a pupil could be awarded an 'alpha' mark. Every pupil who succeeded in averaging one alpha per week over the period of the school year would then be rewarded with a free afternoon during the summer term. Even though I was in an A class, alphas were as rare as hen's teeth for me. I received two in total during my five years at the school. The first was provided by the history teacher for completion of a map of England highlighting examples of place names with Roman, Viking and Old English origins. This was known to be a gift for alpha-seekers; the surprise was that some boys did not get one. After all, we had all copied from one another. My second alpha came from an unusual source – it was given to me by the sports master.
In the fifth year at school we were encouraged to play rugby union. Our sports master was a Loughborough University graduate, also a leading member of the Huddersfield Rugby Union side. He even admitted that he was on the lookout for promising juniors to join the club when teaching us.
At this time there was one pupil in our class – Ian Harlock – who, at the age of 15, was already well over 6 feet tall and, as we used to say, “was built like a barn door”.
During class games he simply ran straight through the opposing side. Our frustrated master shouted “An alpha to anyone who tackles Harlock”. A few minutes later he came straight for me and, employing the technique demonstrated to us only minutes earlier, I stopped him with a perfectly timed tackle around the legs. He came down like a ton of bricks; I heard the air he expelled as he hit the ground.
“That’s the way you do it!”
commented our master and Ian simply turned to me and said
“Well done”.
This was the start of my reputation as a tackling demon, an attribute which served to mask the inadequacies I had throughout my rugby career. Like a trained judo player, I learned how a perfectly executed tackle used your opponent’s bulk against him. A good tackle was clean and clinical, irrespective of the size and speed of your opponent. And – apart from the time when I tackled a future Welsh International full-back – should not be painful if the execution is correct.
I received my promised alpha, together with a suggestion that I go down to Huddersfield RUFC for training. I was pleased that, at last, I had found something sporting at which I could shine. But the idea of going to the 'Old Boys' (Huddersfield RUFC’s nickname) did not appeal; they were too posh. I was a rugby league devotee through and through. I had been going to the Fartown ground – the home of Huddersfield Rugby League Club – since I was a young lad living at Riddings Road. They used to open the gates at three-quarters time, so we got to watch part of the game for nothing. Later I was to assist in operating the scoreboard, when I was then able to see the whole match for free. No, it was to be rugby league or nothing.
- Birkby CYC Rugby League U-17s
I heard that the Civic Youth Club in Birkby was having trouble in putting out their under-17 rugby league side in the local competition. By this time I had left school and knew one of the players from work. I went along to a training session and was drafted into the team on the following weekend. I wasn’t an instant success but my tackling skills were appreciated as I quickly learned the fundamentals of the game. Unusually for a team at that time we did not have large players in our side; we tended to be small and speedy. In the days before limited tackle counts and substitutes in the sport, any advantages brought by our agility were eventually worn down by the sheer battering we suffered. We often started well – even scoring a few memorable, well-worked tries to take the lead – only to be overrun in the closing stages of each half. However, the team maintained a good morale, all enjoying the pleasing things we were capable of before being steamrollered.
It’s interesting for me to now look back at the playing record of members of the then Birkby CYC U-17 side. One - Stuart Walker - switched over to rugby union with the 'Old Boys' and went on to represent Yorkshire at full-back, whilst two or three others - whose full names I have unfortunately forgotten - advanced to professional careers. The remainder generally continued to play in local amateur leagues at U-19 and Open-Age levels. The Birkby setup proved to be a good starting block for many.
- St Josephs ARL U-17s
The last game I played for Birkby was against the St Josephs Amateur Rugby League side from Huddersfield. To say that I was singled out for harsh treatment in the game is an understatement; I was punched surreptitiously on a couple of occasions and had my hand and foot trod on ‘accidentally’. At the end of the game, I was asked if I would consider playing for their team in future; they had been testing my durability and temperament on instruction. Apparently, my name had been suggested to them as a potential candidate for recruitment, as I would still qualify as an under-17 for the following season. Working on the “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em”
principle, I agreed.
In joining one of the two leading teams in the league (the other was Deighton), I met an unforgettable character who was to have a great influence on me: coach Billy Gill. Billy, a former professional rugby league winger, had a unique way of coaching sides. He had a natural empathy when dealing with juveniles, on both a sporting and personal basis. I learned many tricks of the trade from him (I was also playing on the wing by then) but most importantly he also was available to give life guidance when required. For example, when I told him that I was considering joining the RAF, he said to me “Don’t put yourself in a position where in future you might continually wonder ‘What would have happened if..?'. Do it while you can. If it doesn’t work out, at least you’ll know”.
This was sage advice then and still is now.
As an ex-professional in what could be at times a vicious sport, Billy was determined to build teams that could surmount the brutal side of the game. We could give it out as well as receive it. As the smallest in the team, I was instructed not to get involved in any personal battles with the opposition. If someone maltreated me, all I was to do was to pass on the number of the culprit and one of our ‘enforcers’ would take care of any revenge to be handed out. This might take some time to fulfil in the passage of play, but more often than not my earlier assailant would be seen later laid out on the turf. Mission accomplished by our ‘enforcers’. I started to feel sorry for the victims so, as time went by, I would pass this message on only in extreme circumstances. It must be pointed out here that, with the many subsequent changes to the rules of rugby league, the previous persistently violent nature of the game has greatly diminished, to the benefit of players and spectators alike.
I cannot leave the subject of brutality in the sport without mentioning a couple of points. First of all, Billy had a code for the team if a brawl was to break out. He would call out “Come away!”
This was the signal for every player to run to the incident and, if necessary, get involved. The reason? Billy quite rightly noted that, after such an occurrence, the referee would often forget who started the melee and not hand out possible punishment to a member of our team. And, as he had shouted a warning, Billy could not be accused of condoning our behaviour. This instruction was straight from the unprinted version of the rugby league coaching manual.
Our ‘enforcers’ were a breed of their own. Big lads – normally second row forwards – who were experts in the game’s dark arts. One of our hard men was a builder with hands like shovels. To quote the Duke of Wellington: “I don't know what effect these men will have upon the enemy, but, by God, they frighten me”.
He fitted this description to a T. Many years later, I was delighted to come across him again as the site manager of the firm building the estate on which we now live. By now he had a Master of Sciences qualification. It just goes to show, you can’t judge a book by its cover.
The next stage in my sporting life was to be in a completely different environment - playing the union version of rugby in the Royal Air Force.
A Taste of Racism
As a fellow member of the non-Church of England group allowed limited access to school assemblies, etc., I became friends with a pupil of Indian origin, Rakesh Gupta. He and I had a mutual love of cricket, but I had the advantage of being able to play it almost daily; he had few similar opportunities. So it made sense to invite him to come up to the Halifax Road playing field to join in our game.
I met Rakesh as planned and he and I made our way to the field. The lads were there, although not yet set up for a game. “Can Rakesh come and join us?”
I asked. My mates just looked at each other and muttered something about not wanting to play that day and then drifted away. I noticed that they had a bat and ball with them. It was obvious that the presence of Rakesh was the reason for their reaction. I hadn’t let them know of my intentions, but I was so disappointed in my friends. I had expected better of them. Any friend of mine should be a friend of theirs; that’s the way we had always operated. Race or colour just didn’t come into it.
It dawned on me that what I had experienced was my first taste of racism, although it wasn’t defined in such terms then. But prejudice was prevalent. It was not unusual, for example, to see house rental adverts with the wording “No Blacks, Irish or Unemployed”. Nevertheless, I was very surprised that my friends should act in this way. I did not mention it when we met the following day. And they never brought the subject up afterwards. But the die had been cast. I have an inbuilt dislike of any type of prejudice. Through this reaction my mates unfortunately had all gone down in my estimation.
I was later to encounter racism at various times and locations. In particular, when in the RAF I was once waiting for an American friend in the almost empty Airmen’s Club at the USAF base at Tempelhof in Berlin. A serviceman in uniform came up to me and asked if I would like another drink. He insisted, so I said OK. He then gave me the money to get one for him and one for me. This happened once more, where he was adamant that he would pay for both our drinks. My friend eventually arrived. On our way out he asked me “What were you doing talking to that redneck?”
I explained what had happened. He sighed and said “That makes sense. Just look at the barman”.
I then remembered that the bartender who had served me was black. “It happens all the time, I’m afraid. These southern country hicks will not deal directly with anyone of colour”.
After he had pointed this out to me, I became increasingly aware of such prejudicial behaviour in his compatriots. I saw it up close in my time of working with the US Forces; also when employed by an American company in Saudi Arabia; as well as on a later business trip to South Carolina and Georgia. These mainly consisted of racial slurs pronounced freely in my presence. I never agreed with or commented on the insults. All I was brave enough to do was to say nothing and hope that my silence spoke volumes. Please understand that not all the Americans I met were racist; far from it. It’s just that those who were bigoted didn’t seem to mind who knew it. Without doubt, we had similar problems in UK, but for us these were not so in-your-face.
There is a pleasing footnote to the tale, however. A couple of years ago, on a whim, I went through the ‘LinkedIn’ website to see if I could find out what had happened to schoolmates from Huddersfield New College. In the middle of my search I found Rakesh, confirmed by his stated education at the college. He had become a GP! A little more digging on the internet and I found out that he had retired to live in Portugal after a career as a well-loved and highly respected family doctor in Chelmsford. I was delighted to discover that he had persevered and won through, the best way to deal with any encountered racism. Rakesh may possibly not now recall this incident, but it is lodged firmly in my memory.
When Rain Stopped Play
Although we like to think that our school holidays were just one long festival of sunshine, we all know that this was not the case. Then what did we sports-enthused youngsters do when rain stopped play? Answer: we gambled.
One of our group – John Walton ('Wally') – was by far the most talented footballer in the playing field crew. And, to make matters worse, he was even smaller than me. Wally had yet another endearing quality for us. A sole child, he had run of the house during the day whilst both his parents were working. This meant that in inclement weather we could all retreat to his nearby front room to pass the time.
Initially we played board games like Subbuteo (table-top football) and Yhatzee (a somewhat intricate cricket-based contest using dice). Then one day a pack of cards was produced and the situation changed completely.
We all became progressively more skilled in games like Pontoon (a Blackjack variation) and Three- and Five-Card Brag. Additionally I refined my card-counting skills from playing here, a quality which was later to help me in the RAF when joining in Bridge and Poker sessions. At the start we had matchsticks as stakes but later progressed to the hard stuff: we used halfpennies and pennies.
Pre-decimalisation coins were big and heavy; this somehow made the contest more meaningful. For example, if you won two shillings, this meant that you would have at least 24 coins in your plunder. The combined weight of these coins would be upwards of 220g; the modern equivalent single 10p coin weighs 6.5g.
These card sessions became so popular that at times, should a dark cloud pass over the playing field, someone only had to ask “Shall we go to Wally’s?”
and any game we were playing was immediately abandoned. However, I recall once how the gambling got out of hand when one of us (it might well have been me) had cleared out the pockets of every other player. The suggestion was made there and then that all winnings be given back to the losers with an undertaking to limit stakes in the future. As everyone at one time had been a loser, as well as a winner, this proposal was accepted. We still continued to enjoy the sessions thereafter and, as our losses and winnings were strictly limited, there was no chance of a further falling out amongst friends.
Around four years later I was most surprised to find out that Wally – like me – had joined up. He had enlisted in the Army just after I started in the RAF. Of all my friends, Wally was the least likely in my opinion to take up a military career, although I knew that he would star at football. We used to meet occasionally when on leave, even bumping into each other on the Friday evening train from London which I boarded at Peterborough. The restaurant car on the train was like a NAAFI bar, packed with soldiers, sailors and airmen on their way home to Yorkshire for the weekend.
On the 2nd of July 1974 Sapper John Walton was killed by the IRA in Northern Ireland, the victim of a booby trap device left in a deserted house he was searching. There is little I can add here, only to say that this unlikely soldier died a hero, commemorated in memorials on land and online. A few years ago I made a special journey and spent a quiet moment in front of his name on the remembrance wall at the National Memorial Arboretum in Staffordshire. I also organised that a poppy was placed in his name on the war memorial at Birchencliffe Church. It was the least I could do.
Ever Increasing Paper Rounds
If I remember correctly, I started my first paper round at 12 when I was in the 3rd Year at Huddersfield New College. I have a suspicion that the minimum permitted age for working was 13 at that time, but quite honestly no-one paid much attention to child labour regulations. The newsagent desperately needed assistance and any volunteer was welcome, with few questions asked.
The nearest newspaper shop to our estate was down the hill on Halifax Road, a good fifteen minutes’ brisk walk from home. When I first started, I was given a round of about forty papers near our estate. I would set off around 6.30am and still get back home in good time for breakfast before school. I didn’t have to return the big carrying bag at the end of the round; I took it home with me for use the following day.
In the period before the widespread introduction of television, newspapers were the only way to receive regular pictorial evidence of what was happening nationally and locally. The radio gave outline details; papers put flesh on the bone. Additionally, at that time there were two deliveries a day. The pre-school round distributed the national dailies, whilst there was an after-school session to deliver the local newspapers which came out at teatime. Due to our location, the afternoon bag contained mainly copies of the Huddersfield Examiner, but some preferred the Halifax Courier. Woe betide if you ever posted the incorrect version to a customer.
Because of my attendance at after-school clubs, I concentrated on doing morning rounds. I was asked from time to time to stand in on a teatime duty. To continually complete both morning and afternoon shifts was just too exhausting, although the potential rewards were highly appealing for a young boy in my situation.
As I became more reliable and trusted in my work, I was given ever larger rounds. Eventually I was asked to consider taking on a problem delivery for the newsagent. This covered the Birkby Hall Road area, a prestigious region further down the road from their shop. The circular round, roughly two miles from start to finish and all in the opposite direction from which I arrived, included a few large Georgian mansions which were formerly the residences of local mill owners. It could not be serviced reasonably on foot; the driveways to some houses were over fifty metres long. It required the use of a bicycle.
When first asked to do this, it was September. My immediate thought was “Christmas Tips!”. I was only a matter of weeks away from receiving what surely had to be a bumper reward in gratuities from this rich area. And, as I did not have my own bike, the shop promised to obtain one for me. So I agreed to the offer, which was further sweetened by a pay rise of two shillings a week.
My disappointment when I turned up on the first day was obvious. The promised bicycle was parked outside the front of the shop – a butcher’s version of circa 1940s vintage. [See the photo left of a similar butcher's bike of that era]. I don’t know what I had expected – perhaps a racing bike with dropped handlebars – but this contraption would have survived a nuclear explosion. Heavy, with a large metal basket on the front, it was a pig to control. And, to cap it all, it didn’t have a crossbar. To my mind it was a female version.
I was to later thank the lack of a crossbar. It allowed me to master the technique of simultaneously extracting the newspaper from the bag in the basket whilst dropping the bike down on its side (it was impervious to damage) and stepping neatly on my way. Sometimes I would also add a deliberate back wheel skid on approach to polish off my performance. Such finesses guaranteed that my round was never boring, whatever the weather.
Being seen riding this machine added nothing to my street credibility, a most important consideration for a growing teenager. Thank goodness I was not expected to take this bike home with me at the end of the daily round. I left it at the shop. Even though I was fit, because of its heavy frame I doubt very much that I could have mastered the uphill stretch back home in the saddle. If I considered that being observed riding the relic was bad for my image, it would have been catastrophic for me to be seen pushing it up the road. It meant that I still had to trek on foot to and from the shop every day, but this was a price I was willing to pay.
I did this round for just over a year. For the last few months I had my own bicycle, so the butcher’s bike then went back into the newsagent’s shed. Funnily enough, I missed it. I only realised the advantage of having a front basket when it was no longer there. Cycling with a full bag of newspapers slung across your body wasn’t the easiest thing to control balance-wise. And I couldn’t repeat the quick draw procedure for selecting and posting the papers that I had mastered on the beast.
Any ideas I had of exploiting a treasure trove of Christmas gratuities on this rich round were sadly misplaced. The majority of customers did not leave a tip at all – even by proxy at the newsagent – and those who did were not particularly generous. Previously I had received double the amount on my smaller, mainly council estate, round. I learned a valuable life lesson here. Those who can least afford are often the most giving.
The year before I had used the proceeds of my tips to go shopping alone for the first time to buy something for myself that I had worked for. I went over by bus to Halifax – always the better local shopping option – looking for a new pair of shoes. To this day I recall how the young lady who served me strove to find exactly what I was seeking. She was fascinated to hear that I was spending my tips and didn’t mind in the least that I paid with a collection of coins. On her advice I bought a pair of brown chisel-toed shoes (then the height of fashion) on which she managed to obtain an extra discount. She suggested that I used this saving to buy my mother some flowers, which is exactly what I did. I wore these shoes to destruction over the following year. Unfortunately, 12 months later my tips total was nowhere near enough to fund a repeat spending spree.
In the last couple of years before starting work I also assisted on a Sunday morning round. The difference here was that the papers were heavier and payment was taken on delivery. It took around three hours to complete the round. Once a month we had a so-called “tu'penny week”
where two pennies were added to the price of each newspaper. This was the only delivery cost we applied. We always tried to make certain that all customers were aware of our presence on this particular Sunday, if necessary through continued knocking, to ensure we received the maximum shared profit out of the takings. Our hands ended up black from the print ink and handling coins, but it was worth it.
I have always been a good tipper. This practice is no doubt influenced by the experience of being a paper boy and the memories of the joy of totting up Christmas gratuities. I never cease to be amazed by acts of people’s generosity. It’s nice to be included in this number from time to time.
Disturbed Examination Preparations
As the time of General Certificate of Education ‘O’ Level examinations approached, I made token gestures at revision. In line with the generalist education policy for grammar schools at that time, I was to sit examinations in ten subjects: English Language; English Literature; Mathematics; French; German; Latin; Chemistry; Physics; Geography; History. Had I been attending Religious Instruction lessons during my college years, the exam total would have been eleven.
Courtesy of the mock examinations we had sat at the beginning of the year, it was predicted that I would achieve five ‘O’ levels. For some reason – although I knew fully well that I had a casual approach to learning – I was insulted by this forecast. I decided that I would just have to pass all ten and prove them wrong.
I then set out to read up on all my subjects, especially the ones in which I was weak. This meant attempting to concentrate on texts and exercise book notes at home in the evening. I first tried to revise in my bedroom but soon gave up because it was too cold. The only alternative was to sit at the dining table in our small but warmer front room and go over my books whilst the rest of the family watched TV. I got used to mentally switching off external noise, a trait which has stayed with me. [Even as I type this text, I am listening to background music]. The problem was that, more often than not, what was being shown on our three-channel, black-and-white TV was much more interesting than the turgid stuff I was trying to absorb. I consoled myself by thinking “at least I’m trying”.
When my results came out, the forecast was wrong. I did not get five ‘O’ Levels. I got four. And a right mix it was, too. Maths (of course), French, Latin and English Literature. I could have blamed the lack of suitable homework facilities for this poor result, but this would have been dodging the issue. I was basically idle.
Interestingly, I was later to work in engineering for many years – where knowledge of physics and chemistry topics was everyday – and my subsequent travels stimulated an ongoing interest in geography and history. Which leads to the question: “Do school examination results define your future?”
In my case, not necessarily, although an aptitude for languages had been indicated. I was later to achieve interpreter status in German – a subject I failed miserably at ‘O’ level – an achievement which could not have been predicted from my performance as a fifteen-year-old.
Nevertheless, it took the later disciplined format of RAF training to put me on the right path and rectify some of the qualification shortcomings. In time I went on to earn three more ‘O’ levels, one ‘A’ level and a BA (Hons) degree.
I was most surprised that I failed English Language but passed English Literature. I thought originally that this was a typing error on my results sheet. I had been in the top tier in English Language in my class; it was one on my ‘banker’ subjects. I suppose that I must have had a bad exam day. As an English Language ‘O’ Level qualification – or equivalent – was required for promotion in the military, once an airman I was advised to re-take the examination at the first opportunity.
I still smile when I recall how my English Language re-sit was organised. As soon as I was posted to Berlin, I went along to see the Education Officer at RAF Gatow. He listened to me and said “You’re going to take a special ‘O’ Level GCE paper which is organised for the military. We call it the ‘English for Idiots’ examination, but don’t quote me on that. Here, take a couple of old papers and look them over. As a Linguist, you’ll have no problems. I’ll put you in for the next exam. By the way, prepare a letter home on a subject of your choice”. That was it. No training offer, no further preparation. In the event I got a problem-free ‘A’ pass. And he was right. One of the main questions – apparently included in every exam in a variety of formats – was “Write a letter home of at least two pages describing something important you have seen.”
Underwhelming Career Advice
I was determined to leave school as soon as I was able. That was the sole objective I had. I gave absolutely zero consideration to what I might undertake in the line of work. Only when my fellow leavers started to excitedly inform me what they intended to do – some even telling me of positions they had already secured – did I fully realise that what I was about to experience was not the end; it was the beginning. And I was totally unprepared.
When asked, I could trot out a list of jobs I would not perform – for example working in an office or a textile mill – but there was no option that enthused me. I needed guidance. Then the school came to my aid; they arranged an interview for me with a careers adviser.
It was apparent from the off that this adviser, who been called in from the local education authority, had one objective – to persuade me to stay on at school for further education. When I dared to dismiss this possibility out of hand, his attitude altered. I tried to tell him that my family circumstances simply would not allow consideration of such a proposal, but he just wasn’t listening. He quickly informed me that I had two choices: textiles or engineering. There were some leaflets available in the school library and would I please let the next candidate know that he could come in? So much for his specialist advice. About as useful as a chocolate teapot.
I picked up some leaflets and made the reluctant decision that it would be engineering. Here, thank goodness, I was able to receive genuine assistance from the job centre youth employment specialists in Huddersfield. I believe that grammar school boys were the preferred choices of potential employers, so it was easy for the job centre to get me interviews with four or five of the leading local engineering companies.
I think that all the firms contacted extended the possibility of an apprenticeship to me in due course, but by then I had already decided on the Holset Engineering Company, who had guaranteed me a place straight away at the interview. (I recall that I was also very tempted by the offer of working for the David Brown Tractor Company, but I turned them down because I didn’t fancy the hour or more’s bus journey to and from Meltham every day). In retrospect, 1963 was a year of full employment when opportunities abounded for young beginners. This situation unfortunately did not last, but at that time I could have the pick of the crop, such was the demand for apprentices.
Therefore, although still not fully excited by the prospect, I started work in July 1963 at the Holset Engineering Company at the tender age of 15, still weeks away from my 16th birthday.
My multifaceted career journey had begun.
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