Click on the image above to see an excerpt from an interview I had with the Brighton Arts Magazine, about me, my father, Arthur Brown and my book Damaged Goods.

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Off. Just me and Mr Moore, trucking down to Newhaven in the Moore Racing leviathan truck. It isn’t like a normal truck, it’s got a hydraulic platform in the back that can take two cars, a fully kitted out workshop, a kitchen and a 4 bed bedroom/front room, with a TV and a mirrored ceiling. Nice. This time, we had a pair of Lotus Cortinas in the back with us, waiting to conquer the Masters Historic Racing weekend at Dijon.

  It’s the first time I’ve crossed from that port and it’s tiny compared with Dover or Portsmouth, but that makes it quicker to get on and the boats are still enormous.  There’s a funny little old train station right next to it, still in service but a relic from past glory days I think. The whole place was surrounded by reams of razor wire and we were glad to get on board. We had a meal in the trucker’s restaurant, then off to our cabin. It was a twin, in case you’re worried – I mean we’re fond of each other but…There was even a power shower, which was handy, after it had been checked for cleanliness, as we had no idea what the facilities would be like down at Dijon. Looking out of the porthole, the sea was flat calm as we edged out of the harbour and we fell asleep almost straight away.

When we awoke land was in sight, and we went and breakfasted just before we docked at Dieppe, another small port. The lady behind the reception desk looked fed up, so we thought we’d have some fun whilst she made her final announcements. We got the giggles real bad and we had her laughing so much that she had to stop mid announcement. Nice at that time of the morning and a good start to a day’s driving.

Cruising across France was different than the journey down from Calais, not as flat and endless looking. The peripherique around Paris was not the expected nightmare and we made good time, stopping for the night in a big, well specced truck stop, just past Orleans. The last time I slept in that truck in France was in February, on the way down to Guadix Circuit in Spain. We had stopped the night just outside Rouen, sleeping in my clothes and two sleeping bags, as the temperature dropped to minus 14. There had been me and three mechanics sharing the room back then, but not this time – it was just me, with Mr Moore sleeping in the double bunk in the driving cab. It was warm and quiet and I slept real good.

Finally nearing Dijon, we had the usual disagreement between the sat nav, the map and the road signs, not made any easier by the 7.5 ton weight limit on most of the roads. Having played this game before, we stopped and asked a cyclist the way. He was fully kitted out and looked like he’d taken a wrong turn from the Tour de France, but drew us a little map and off we went. We followed a single track road through the forest in our thirty ton truck and came across two swarms of bees. The first encounter was not very successful as we had the windows open, but after chasing them out of the cab, they were closed by the time the second one hit us. Nature versus truck. Just before the map’s luck ran out and it was heading out the window to fight the bees, it turned out that the cyclist had been right and we arrived at the gates.

The circuit at Dijon is enormous, snaking its way around a forested hillside, a few miles out of town. We needn’t have worried about the facilities, they are bigger and better than Silverstone and there were no portaloos or damp temporary structures here – all purpose built buildings fitted out with top line stuff, even the handsoap was posh.

After hooking up the truck’s electric, the rest of the team arrived from the airport in their hire cars and we sat outside on deck chairs drinking tea, sorting things out for the morning. All those flocks of sparrows that used to spend their summers in England seemed to have ended up here, darting around looking for crumbs. Maybe they enjoyed the racing too. Mr Moore cooked us a meal and we ate to the accompaniment of the sound of crickets chirping away, as the sun went down over the distant, wooded views.

Another good night’s sleep and I awoke to the sound of engines. All unsilenced. There was the scream of V4′s, V6′s and flat plane cranks, the roar of V8′s and V12′s all accompanied by the clinking of spanners. Not at all like Formula 1 racing.

Speaking of which however, they were there too. Klass, a friend of the man who owns Guadix Circuit in Spain, was there to race his 2004 Jaguar Formula 1 and  I wandered over to his pit garage with Phil, one of our drivers, to see it up on ramps. It looked like a Frankenstein’s monster, with cables all over the place connecting it up to all sorts of laptops and stuff. Alongside were racks of tyres in their sleeping bag like tyre warmers. The noise of that engine is just so loud close up, it hurts your ears – something you just don’t appreciate watching F1 on the tele. I watched him racing that weekend and he stormed it round the track like a madman, screaming through the forest. A fast, fearless driver.

At scrutineering, there were lots of spoilt little boys with their million pound toys, having screaming fits of their own, when their car was refused for some or other mechanical misdemeanour.

They weren’t all like that of course and one that we met, was the man who started the ‘York’ dumbbell and sport equipment company, though he had sold it and retired a few years ago. A quietly spoken, friendly American gentleman who was driving his monster Corvette, we sat and had breakfast with him in the Masters catering area.

It was a trailer about the same size as we had, but done out as a kitchen inside, with full length awnings either side and across the end, all tables and chairs and napkins inside, with a floor, just like a proper restaurant. After eating, they went went over to the garage to inspect his Corvette and had a long chat about technical stuff. Lovely guy.

Later in the day, the marshalls came round telling everyone to take down all their tents and awnings, as 140kph winds had been forecast overnight, so everyone got busy packing away what had taken them a day to put up. After the team had departed for their hotel, we sat in the truck eating supper and watched a Cheech and Chong film on the DVD, before going to bed. It was great to be there. I love race meets.

The wind never arrived in the end and we awoke to the sound of engines once again. Outside, loads more people had arrived and there were all sorts of pitbikes zipping about, as well as golf buggies and white haired gentlemen cruising about in their Bentley Speed Sixes, complete with picnic hampers on the back, that they had ‘popped down from England’ in,  along with countless other million pound classics. Even the paddock shop stands were expensive – the BRM stand was selling 38k euro watches and one of the Gulf Racing stands was selling its polo shirts for 60…

The noise was all around as all sorts of cars revved up, edging off of trailers, or having their carbs fettled. The sparrows seemed either immune to the racket or to be enjoying it, as they hopped between the trailers in their search for snacks.

Glamorous wives, girlfriends, mistresses and daughters mingled with the hospitality girls, as gangs of Cobras, E Types and Lotus’ crawled around, growling at the European Exotics. That was all just in the paddock and I thought I’d venture out into the public areas and the endless car parks. I’m glad I did. I have never, even if I put all my past copies of Classic and Sports Car magazine together, seen so much gleaming classic metal.

There was miles of it. Literally every make, year and model of car ever made, that was worth even a passing glance, from every country, was there. Rows and rows of them – I could list them all, but it would take ages and pages – Astons, Bentleys, Ferraris, Rolls, Vauxhall, Alfas, Fords, Chevys, Pontiacs, De Tomasos, Renaults, Citroens, Peugeots, Lotus’, Mustangs, Willis, Porsches, Jensens, Caddy’s – you get the picture… As well as the cars, there were local food stands from Burgundy, the rest of France and Spain, Clothing stalls and memorabilia that stretched away down the hillsides. It was kind of like Glastonbury, but richer and tidier, the smell of money filling the atmosphere with a buzz that I’d never felt before, along with the petrol fumes and the ever present noise of engines.

There were loads of different classes of classic cars racing, from formula junior up to Formula 1, race after race after race. You could get dizzy watching, but finally our turn arrived and it was race time. Mike and Phil, the drivers, were as revved up as the gleaming Cortina. They were off. Lap after lap flew by, with the pit stops for fuel and changing drivers halfway, seeming to blur with the cars as they sped past where we were standing, on the pit wall.

There were a few cars that spun off, or just straight into the gravel traps, and even into each other, but Mike and Phil kept it going, both of them relentless, top class drivers, picking up valuable seconds with every lap. Towards the end, the computer tracker that gave the places in the race was playing up and I ran up to the timekeepers office with Mike, to explain that the placing for our car was wrong. This was when my French came in handy and they adjusted the listings just in time for Phil to scream home into 2^nd place, which gave them 1^st overall in class for the weekend. Excellent result!

Phil Keen & Mike Gardiner - Win!

As soon as the race was finished and the trophies and photos had been collected, we packed up and set off. The journey home back across France went without a hitch, though the sea wasn’t quite as calm and by the time we got back to Moore Racing, it already felt like a dream, all too quickly over, again. Blimey, ain’t I lucky!

I was up early the next morning and off to start my job as Duty Manager for LOCOG, at the Olympics, which is turning out to be another whole different kind of adventure…

My thanks to Mr Moore, Mike, Phil, Pete and Ben, for another wonderful trip into the alternate world that is Moore Racing. Fan-bleedin’-tastic!

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The Power of Music

In the musical world of today, it’s easy to forget that the protest song once had real bite, to the extent that its singers were ostracised, relentlessly hounded by the establishment and jailed, or forced to live abroad.

On occasion the government would be clever and let the mood rise, until the ensuing violence that boiled over became the focus of attention, rather than the initial subject of the protest.

Have we forgotten because we have, as perhaps was planned,  become immune to and lazy about conflict, or is it that the governments have realised that the best way to dilute protest in music is to ignore it, and to give numbing overkill coverage in the media? It must also be said that in today’s vastly more commercial musical world, the money created by its sale brings in taxes that help to fill the very coffers it once threatened.

There have been many songs and albums since the 70′s that rail against government policies and wars, but perhaps the 50′s and 60′s and 70′s were the age when such recordings really incited people to fight for change.

Many of the singers who were brave enough to stand up and be counted and heard are no longer with us, or have mellowed into the accepted old guard of folk/rock/pop, but in their time, fuelled by the adrenalin of youth, they kicked ass!

It may now seem funny that people like Peter Paul and Mary and Joan Baez were seen as a threat to the establishment for their many harmonious litanies against war, or Sam Cooke for his wistful eulogy against Racism ‘A Change Gonna Come’, or even Rod Stewart for his song ‘The Killing of George’ and The Tom Robinson Band popping up in the middle of Punk with their Gay anthem, both banned by the BBC due to their pro Gay message.  It sure wasn’t funny then though, they all meant it and all paid the price for their beliefs.

Here’s a list of sorts, a round of applause for some of the brave ones, who stood up when it mattered, and have left us with their timeless, angry, indignant and sometimes sad and beautiful songs, that still echo with their sincerity today.

If some of them are unknown to you and you’re interested, check them out on Youtube.

Phil Ochs, Tim Hardin, Pete Seeger, Judy Collins, Arlo Guthrie, Peter Paul and Mary, The Weavers, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Country Joe McDonald, Tim Buckley, Buffy Sainte Marie, Donovan, Cat Stevens, Melanie, Johnny Cash, Nina Simone, Sam Cooke, PF Sloan, John Lee Hooker, Elvis Presley, The Rolling Stones, Richie Havens, George Jones, Willie Nelson, John Lennon, Kris Kristofferson, Marvin Gaye, Edwin Starr, The Temptations, Rod Stewart, Bob Marley, Gil Scott Heron, Fela Kuti, The Stiff Little Fingers and The Specials.

Videos from some of the artistes mentioned above can be found on my Facebook page .

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I travelled down with 2 of them in the truck, which, apart from room for the cars, had workshop, kitchen and front room/bedroom facilities. Having travelled through the channel tunnel, once we had cleared the flatlands of Northern France, the countryside got more interesting as the temperature dropped. Our first night was spent at a truckstop near Rouen, where the temperature fell to -14. There was nowhere to plug in the truck’s power point, which meant no heaters. I woke at two in the morning to put my hat on, as though I was inside 2 sleeping bags, with my thermals on, my face was freezing cold.

Hot Truck, Cold Location.

Up at 5 the next morning, after a first, fitful night’s sleep, we trundled off through the dawn, woodsmoke trailing straight up into the clear sky from the chimneys of the farmhouses alongside the motorway.  All the houses seemed to have log piles outside, coppiced from nearby woodland, and seemed well used to the weather and set for any amount of time. It’s only when you travel on motorways in France and Spain that you realise how bad our roads in the UK really are. Our progress was watched by sentinel like buzzards, sat atop the roadside fences, hoping perhaps for some fast food roadkill for a change. But, the motorway fences are fairly game tight over there, so although we saw the odd one wheeling high over the fields, mostly they seemed to just sit and watch the traffic.

Having passed Bordeaux, as we neared the end of the seemingly endless forest of Le Landes, we started to see snow. Upon reaching the mountains we had a snowplough as an escort for a few miles, clearing the road as it wound through the tunnels and bends and thought it wouldn’t be too bad. Suddenly, without any added drama, we were in Spain and the snow was bad. The worst for years apparently. Herds of big, mean looking snowploughs plowed furrows in both directions, seemingly unworried and unhurried by what was, for them, all in a days work.

Snowplough, fooling us into thinking it would all be clear.

As the truck crawled on, powering slowly along the only lane that was partly clear, we didn’t know if we were going to be stopped. In Spain they have massive, secure, lorry parks alongside the motorways, that the police shepherd the trucks into, during really bad weather. It saves on snarl ups on the mountainous sections of road, but you can be there for a couple of days and we had a schedule. We had to have the truck and it’s precious cargo there in time for the drivers to fly out at the end of the week, to start testing the cars. It was hard to see more than 30 metres through what had become a blizzard, but my old mechanic friend carefully and determinedly drove on. The problem with big trucks is that all the weight is in the back, along with what little grip there is in snow, so accelerating and braking take some skill, as once a slide begins, it’s almost impossible to stop.

The Mountains in The Pays Basque.

We made it though, along almost empty roads, and by the time we got south of Burgos it was clear. We stopped another night in a truck stop, somewhere near Madrid. There was a petrol station every few kilometres, along the new autopista, constructed for the expected traffic that seemed to have disappeared along with the country’s economy. It meant for us at least, that all the tarmac was spotless. Every station had spotless toilets and showers too, and the food on sale was better than most English restaurants. They also sell, rather worryingly, along with the usual consumables on the display stands, CS gas, knives, and tacky porn DVD’s. Friendly people though.

Madrid has a series of concentric ring roads and we were on the outer one. It seemed to go on forever, which was a slight problem, as our map had no junction numbers, the roadsigns seemed to randomly pick destinations out of a hat and the satnav thought we were in a field. I must say that the standards of driving over there have improved in the last 30 years, but they can still surprise the unwary traveller, with seemingly random lane changing and wild, daredevil turns. We made it though. The scenery continued to impress, windmills and the giant bull signs confirming for us that we were in the right country, the buzzards of France replaced by eagles and a few eurofighters, slicing through the sky, only a few hundred metres above us.

Spanish Bull, Andalucia.

Arriving at the Circuit we plugged the truck into the mains, got the heaters on and ate our first meal cooked in the truck’s kitchen. Spam Korma. I kid you not, it tasted wonderful and after washing up and having a wash ourselves, we went to sleep early, to get a fresh start in the morning. I awoke about 3am and pulled my hat and coat on, to go outside for a pee. Walking across the paddock car park, I heard the grunting and snuffling of wild boar beyond the fence and looked up at the milky way and a sky lit by a thousand stars. We were definitely abroad.

The circuit is situated on a massive plain encircled by woods and mountains, with views that stretch to the horizon in all diections. On one side, the distant snow capped Sierra Nevada mountains gleamed in the sunrise, with flocks of sparrows and sand martins chirping the arrival of another beautiful day. The cars were offloaded and wheeled into the pit garages, just as the rest of the mechanics arrived in their hire car, having flown into Malaga and driven up to the site. I think that there are much worse ways to make a living and worse places to work, though it has to be said that being part of a race team is far from the normal 9-5 existance and more of a lifestyle than a job, working whatever hours it demands. You’ve got to have petrol in your veins really.

Circuito Guadix, Andalucia Spain

I found myself doing tapas and cooking lunch for 12 which was a new experience, but it seemed to go down well. The track manager ate with us and made us feel very welcome, even lending us one of the circuit’s cars for a week, so we could all go out. What a lovely guy. It was a trusty and somewhat dusty old Opel Vectra, a turbo diesel who’s turbo seemed to have expired and had a wheel wobble above 100kmph. He used it for running around at the track, as it was more economical than his Porsche Cayenne Turbo! I cleaned and polished it, the rest of the team sorted out it’s oil, wheels and tyres, though the turbo remained stubbornly out of action. In any case it went well for the few weeks that we were there, serving as a van, people carrier and even an off road vehicle, on our jaunts across some of the tracks through the mountains. We put a sticker with our team name on the Porsche for good measure!

Sorting out the Vectra.

The two cars they were testing were a 1967 Ford Falcon and a 1963 Lotus Cortina. We had the track to ourselves almost the whole time we were there and both cars did as much mileage as a whole season’s racing. They performed pretty much faultlessly throughout, the noise of their engines echoing around the plain. And what a noise! The Falcon’s V8 roared and The Lotus howled as they powered round and round the circuit, bits being changed as and when deemed neccessary, or just to see which bits of the puzzle fitted together best, to make them go faster than they already did. Some days, the drivers would spend the last 20 minutes or so racing each other, which was some spectacle I can tell you. Those cars just don’t look like they should go that fast, but they sure do! Being backstage at a private event like that is a real privelige.

Historic Racing Ford Falcon and Lotus Cortina Testing at Circuito Guadix, Andalucia, Spain.

Over the course of our time there, we became friends with both the track manager and the owner, who joined in with our pranks, as well as some meals. They both loved the cars too, the owner having run a race team himself, back in the 70′s, driving Lolas. They reccommended local restaurants to us, which we visited a few times, the chief driver treating us all, as he was so happy with the way it all went. One of them was a few kilometres from the circuit, right alongside the autopista. It sat in the shadow of the Jamoneria slaughterhouse and sold, unsurprisingly, mostly ham. Mention of the track owner’s name saw us ushered straight in, an unannounced table for 12 being no problem at all. His name seemed to open all doors down there, which was handy. We ate truckloads. Steak, ham, gambas, chorizo and olives. They had become a staple of our mealtimes at the track and were absoloutely lovely. You just can’t beat fresh spanish olives, anywhere. The meat was also lovely, it couldn’t have been any fresher if we’d killed and cooked it ourselves, as with the gambas, which put all other prawns in the shade. Down there, it’s not how the restaurant looks, or the way it’s clientele dresses, or even the prices on the menu that mark out a good place to eat, it’s just the food. That’s all that counts, and this one was impressive. We went there two or three times and each time the food tasted just as good as the last.

Tapas Time.

A day out in the middle of the week, when the drivers had flown home until the following weekend and the cars were all prepared, saw us head off into the great beyond, in the trusty Opel and the mechanic’s hire car. First of all we drove into Guadix Town. It’s a real town, as opposed to a tourist trap, but has some beautiful architecture and we sat in a square having lovely Spanish coffee, near the impressive church. We walked around and did some window shopping before setting off to our next destination.

The Church at Guadix.

We went to a little town up in the hills, where most of the houses were caves. Not caves as you might imagine though. 10 rooms and indoor pools, or 10 rooms and four storeys, hiding behind a single rendered doorway and window, they were amazing. Not all were posh, but all were worth a look. There was one which was opened up as a museum, though that description may have been a bit hopeful. It was just someone’s house that they still lived in. They had one room that was an enormous dining room, with a carved cathedral ceiling and shelves hollowed out of the rock. We saw another room that they were busy excavating, using a pickaxe and a wheel barrow, the rock being soft enough to do so by hand. There is something to be said for that – if you want an extension, just dig it out. Also, the rooms remain at a constant temperature throughout the year, with only the front room needing an open fire in winter, whose chimney is a small tunnel dug up through the rock, littering the hillsides around, showing just how many houses there were hidden away. Here and there alongside the roads, seemingly in the middle of flat fields you could see these chimneys sticking up in little clusters from the ground. If you stopped and walked across the field you might find a small gorge, around a hundred feet deep, with cave houses carved into the steep sides, all inhabited – wonderful.

Cave Houses, near Guadix, Andalucia, Spain.

We followed a dirt track for 3 or 4 miles, groups of Golden Eagles soaring above us, to what looked like the grand canyon. It was miles long and hundreds of feet wide and deep. Just before we stopped a Spanish wolf loped across the road in front of us, stopping only momentarily to look disdainfully, before disappearing into the scrub. We’d been told that there were some massive vultures here, that fed off the carcasses and offal not used in the slaughter houses, and though I had seen some years before at Castellar de la Frontera, further south, we didn’t see any that day.

The Canyon, Guadix.

We did find a deserted and dilapidated cave ranch though, which must have been a big and successful set up in it’s day, It had a main house, with very grand rooms, as well as workers accommodation and stables, all carved out of the rock. There were 4 or 5 wells too, all drilled down into the rock and still holding water. Whether or not it had been bought and left to rot by the government, when the whole area became a designated national park, or whether it had been left for some other reason I don’t know, but we spent an hour climbing around and exploring.

Deserted Cave Ranch, near Guadix, Andalucia, Spain.

Back into relative civilisation, we headed for a place listed as a spa resort, up in the hills. We arrived about an hour later, having driven along dirt tracks and dried up river beds in our trusty steeds. The place was out of season and closed up and empty, except for a few workers doing some maintenance on what was really only one hotel and a few houses. The hot springs though carried on regardless of the time of year. The stream that poured down the mountain was hot, as was the waterfall at the bottom. I’d love to return and have a shower under there.

Hot Waterfall at Balneario Alicun de las Torres

Hot water had become something of a luxury for us, as the showers at the circuit were the one thing that were ‘a bit tempramental!’ We followed the stream down, away from the resort, to a large pond, before it disappeared back underground. Stood at the edge, we heard rustling in the reeds and discovered a 4ft snake. My mechanic friend decided that it would be a good idea to poke it with a stick, to see what happened and being the boss, we decided that he had to do it himself. Upon being poked, with a long stick, the snake just turned slowly round and sat there, giving us a hard stare. It looked like it was sizing up how many of us it could get, before we overpowered it, but then, probably luckily for us, decided that it couldn’t be bothered and slipped into the warm water, swimming slowly over to the other side, slithering up to peace and quiet in a hole in the far bank.

Rock Hard Snake, Best Left Alone!

Throughout our weeks at the circuit, the owner visited us, along with an array of local characters, who all loved cars. We met some great people there and had a wonderful time together. We were invited to a private party, at a village up in the hills, where we bumped into the Soul singer PP Arnold, who was lovely.

With PP Arnold.

The next and last weekend’s testing went without a hitch, in perfect weather, the cars thundering round the track, never missing a beat or a corner, Damn those drivers are good!

The Falcon Hitting the Ton as it Thunders up The Straight.

At last it was time to go home. I was looking forward to seeing my girlfriend and our family, but I was going to miss this place and these people.  I spent almost 3 weeks with a team of men that I hardly knew really, apart from their boss. Though I became chief cook and bottle washer, I was the only person who wasn’t working and was really only along for the ride. So a big thanks to a great bunch of guys – Richard, Stuart, Sam and Sam, Peter and Ben, Mike and Phil and of course, from the circuit, Clive and Rafael. What an adventure.

Time to go Home.

Having regularly visited Spain over the last 20 years, I’ve seen how the strip along the coast from Marbella to Gibraltar has changed in that time. Tracks and broken wooden fences have been replaced with roads and armco, shepherds casa’s with housing estates and donkey rides on the beach replaced with jetskis. I’m glad to see that Just a little further along, the old Spain and it’s warm, welcoming people, is still very much alive, in spite of tourism, recession and the passing of time, if you care to look for it.

I’ll be back…

Sunset from Circuito Guadix

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(28th Jan 2012) so if you haven’t got your copy yet,

grab it today for free!

If you don’t yet have a Kindle, then you can download a free Kindle app for either your phone or PC by visiting Amazon. Find out all about here.

Amazon.co.uk users click here to download Damaged Goods

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Damaged Goods is a true story. It will make you laugh and cry and the musical references alone will take you on a trip down memory lane. See what other readers think here 

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Blue Peter and Magpie. CrackerJack and Doctor Who. The Clangers, Mister Ben, Mary Mungo and Midge, Pipkin’s, Hector’s House and Pogles Wood. Vision On and Out of Town. Tales of the Riverbank and The Magic Roundabout. Thunderbirds, Stingray and Captain Scarlet. Marine Boy and Scooby Doo. The Osmonds, The Jackson Five, The Harlem Globetrotters and Top Cat. Looney Tunes and Walt Disney. The Banana Splits, Double Deckers, Tiswas and Tarzan. High Chapparal, Bonanza and The Virginian. The Waltons and Little House on the Prairie. The Flashing Blade and Belle and Sebastian. Follyfoot, The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family and Happy Days. The Six Million Dollar Man, Kung Fu and Tomorrow’s World. Star Trek and Space 1999. Kojak, Ironsides, Starsky and Hutch, Columbo, Canon and The Rockford Files, Hawaii Five 0 and The Sweeney. Some Mothers Do ‘ave ‘em, Mike Yarwood, Dave allen, Dick Emery and Morecombe and Wise. Dad’s Army and It Ain’t Half Hot Mum. Carry On, Westerns and War Films. Top of the Pops, The Eurovision Song Contest, The Old Grey Whistle Test and The late night double bill of Hammer Horror films. Speaking of which, wasn’t The Texas Chainsaw Massacre film just a nightmare version of every Scooby Doo script? The kids, the van, an old house and a masked monster?

Any I missed?

I remember at school we had a TV in a cabinet on long legs, on which we all used to watch Playschool in the hall. One day the moon landing was being shown instead, to great excitement, but the TV chose that day not to work. The headmaster, being the most excited person in our 3 class school, hurriedly phoned all the parents to see who had a TV at home, sending us off in groups to watch it. Brilliant!

I had a fight with a bigger boy one day and bit him on the arm trying to get him off, he’d started it. Our teacher pulled us apart and bit me on the shoulder ‘to see how I liked it.’ I didn’t like it at all and told my mum when I got home, showing her the bruise. She took one look at my shoulder and spanked me and sent me to bed. Best not discuss fights with mum then.

Another thing, which I didn’t discuss with her, was when a girl friend of mine told me she had heard her mum and dad talking about something called sex and did I want to try it? We went into a toilet cubicle, closed the door, puckered up and kissed each other for about five minutes, not knowing what else to do. Our teacher came and caught us, banging angrily on the door. After we had innocently explained what we were doing, the teacher spanked me. It wasn’t even my idea! I kept quiet about that one and thought that I wouldn’t bother with sex, as it only led to trouble – I was only 7 but probably should have bore that in mind for future reference!

I also remember being chucked out of Cubs, for continually leaving early, with some or other excuse, to get home in time for Top of the Pops. Akela waited until the badge awarding ceremony at the end of term, and chucked out me and my brother, along with 2 others, in front of everyone, without our hard earned badges. Akela was new and anyway a poor replacement for our old leader, who had been great, with all sorts of games and stuff, so we didn’t really mind and just told Mum and Dad that we didn’t want to go anymore. Got away with that one.

A lifetime ago…

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