It’s something that has always guided me about how I treat people, and it had a far-reaching effect on me from the time it happened onward.

I’d probably need to check this with two of my old schoolfriends from the time who will possibly remember better than I do, but I think at the time, our school had a playing field that we used to have to walk to from school.

I remember playing games and sports there, and I believe it had a prefab classroom of sorts too (that may be completely wrong), and it was on the way back to school that the event happened.

We used to walk with a teacher at the front and one at the back to keep us all together, and on this particular day, on arriving back at school, I was called into the head teacher’s office, where I was informed that I’d been reported to the teacher by an old lady for pulling a snarling face at her.

The thing I still remember is that I hadn’t. I didn’t even recall seeing her.

I was a kid - I was most probably pulling faces at one of my schoolfriends, and this lady may have thought I was doing it to her, but I definitely wasn’t.

I can still remember the shock of being accused and trying to defend myself against the claim.

Knowing the way I’d been brought up, even at that age, I knew that my parents would be upset had I done that, and I’d have been fearful of the outcome if they believed the claim.

I can’t remember the outcome, or even if I only got told off, but it’s something that’s always had a factor in how I’ve treated people, especially older people, and I’ve made a point of trying to make sure I was never in that position again.

Even now, I can remember how it felt to be accused of something I’d not done.

It’s funny how small events can have a long-lasting effect.

In saying that, it’s quite possible that event stopped me from becoming a nasty little sod as I grew into a teen.

I just checked, and it was actually released in the UK this week in 1975.

And it took me back to the Lakeside Holiday Camp at Burnham on Sea, where we had an Arcade and Bingo. This particular year though, we also had the cafe that was at the entrance to the holiday camp.

It wasn’t a large cafe, but I suppose it would cater to 30-40 people. It was just what you’d imagine a cafe to be in the 70s.

It was L-shaped, and the main part of the room had rectangular tables topped with a horrible beige coloured Formica and those horrible plastic orange seats.

The narrow part had the square equivalent to the tables in the main part of the room and the same seats.

I can remember mum having a Roberts radio on the counter playing Radio 1 so the charts of the day would be heard by the customers who bought their steak and kidney pie and chips, pasty and chips, or sausage, egg and chips.

Oh yes, the food of the 70s dull and boring - the most cosmopolitan thing we’d heard of back then was a Vesta curry, and we didn’t sell those!

But the best thing in the cafe for me was Lime Milkshakes. Pure delight! Whenever I could get out of the arcade, I’d be down to the cafe for a Lime Milkshake and not the thick shakes we have today. Oh no, back then they were runny, thin milkshakes, but I loved them,

Looking back, everything was so much simpler back then, certainly food-wise in the cafe. Adults drank a mug of tea. I think Mum sold Maxwell House coffee, but it wasn’t a big seller to our Brummie and Bristolian holidaymakers.

And for the Birmingham holidaymakers, we had to use the Devil’s milk, sterilised. It came in a tall bottle with a lid like those on a beer bottle.

And it was the most Godawful tasting stuff. But they loved it, so Mum stocked it.

Howard, who ran the shop on the holiday camp, used to stock it as well, and 90% of the milk he sold was sterilised

In fact, I have this vivid memory of being in the shop first thing in the morning and thinking to myself, do all the Brummies buy the same stuff, because day after day I used to hear them say to Howard, “Can I have 20 Park Drive and a pint of Stera please?”

Always the same two things to start the day off. I asked Howard once what his two biggest sellers in the shop were, and they were those two items.

Happy Days! And hearing The Stylistics this morning took me right back there once again.

Someone - I can’t remember who - came into our arcade at Burnham and was talking to my Dad, and he was showing him this new little tape recorder he’d bought.

I was closely looking on in amazement at it.

Apparently, you didn’t need a reel-to-reel tape recorder anymore, as you could now buy these little ‘cassettes’ with tape already in them.

And you could buy proper albums with music already on them, or you could buy blank ‘tapes’ and record them yourself.

The man showed my Dad and me the tape. Now, this was odd. I could see the tape through a little window in the middle of the casing but was concerned at how you’d re-thread it as you did with normal reels.

He told me not to worry, as when it got to the end, it didn’t come undone, as it was attached to the little plastic piece on the inside and that all you did was take the shell out of the player and flip it over to play the other side. Wow!

I loved this idea. And straight away told my Dad I wanted one.

And what was better was that the player/recorder came with a leather case that you could put it in and take it out with you, as the cassette player used batteries or electric.

I’ll never forget when I first saw it - my Dad did get me one not long after, and it was on that that I started taping the charts off of the radio back then.

Tapes came in 60, 90 and 120 minute ‘cassettes’. I found out quickly that the best ones were the 90-minute ones.

I would love to say that I remembered what that first tape I heard on that cassette was. But I do remember the one song on it, Esther & Abi Ofarim’s ‘Cinderella Rockerfella.’ So it would have been 1968 when this event happened.

And that was the start of a love affair with cassettes that lasted until CDs came about.

I kept all my cassettes for years and eventually gave over 800 to my kids’ school for the music department to use.

The funny thing is that 10 years ago, I bought another one and started playing old cassettes again.

And can you remember that lovely hissing sound they used to have? Good old ‘Dolby’ reduction almost sorted that!

Happy Days!

Sometimes, it’s the crap bit of being an adult.

I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday about being a kid on the grounds and how I’d go out and play with my cousin Henry Turner and Joseph Manning when we were still travelling.

We talked about the things we had in common, the places we opened at, Victoria Park, Tooting Bec (The Ice cream man with the barrow and the ‘Micky’ machine outside the gate), and the place I loved most that I never opened at but I always used to stay at, Enfield.

And I can’t help feeling today that for one day I’d like to go back to when we had our arcade on the grounds, and the only thing I had to do was go and play with my friends..

.

That seems like a lot of years, and yet, looking back, it seems like 5 minutes.

My childhood went in a flash. I was a teenager for what seems like the click of my fingers.

I left home at 20 and went travelling on fairgrounds. By the time I was 30, I was married, had two kids and was just about to lose my business.

By the time I was 40, I’d lost everything I’d worked for since I was 20 and had started over, had another business and was now a director a non-league football club (Weymouth FC),

By 50, my marriage had broken up and I’d moved 200 miles to Cambridge, and for the second time in my adult life, I was starting again, having left with only a van and my disco equipment.

By 60, I was with someone new, had a new home and was pursuing new opportunities. I’d also had a run-in in the health department, and reaching 60 was at one stage something I didn’t think was going to happen. I was just grateful to be there,

A lifetime has flown by in the blink of an eye.

And still, there’s so much more to come. I’m still pursuing new opportunities, and I’m still excited about the future.

Don’t get me wrong, I still have down times when things get me frustrated and miserable.

And yet, I’ve still got so much to do.

Yes, my life, like so many of us, has been turned upside down over the years, but I refuse to let that define me.

I choose not to participate in the doom and gloom that seems to be so prevalent these days. I’m not one of the ‘woe is me’ brigade.

I still think the best is yet to come. I’m not waiting for it to fall in my lap, though.

I’m still on the hunt. I may not always get everything right. I may come up short along the way,

But I’m still in the game... and grateful that I’m still here to be part of it!

The Lockdown was a bit of a leveller for all of us, but while it was on, my mind has continued on its little journey. I picked up my paintbrushes again, I started being creative, and although I couldn’t always come up with something to draw, paint or even write, it gave me a fresh impetus to keep on keeping on with my goals and dreams.

Along the way, when you fail at something, some people find it funny, but let me tell you something. I’d rather fail doing my thing than be one of the crowd for no other reason than because I didn’t have the guts to try.

There are times when I think I should call it a day and just do what everyone else does, but there’s this bit of me, way down deep inside, that just won’t give in.

But best of all, those of you who scoff (not just at me, but at anyone who tries to do their own thing), that’s all you can do, because I’m gonna carry on doing my thing! And you can carry on watching...

It’s funny how your opinions change over the years.

When we were there I felt like it was a prison. I was nearly 10 when we took it over, and left there when I was 16. I couldn’t wait to get away from it.

At the time, all I wanted to do was get away from Burnham and get to the London area where all my family and friends were.

I remember seeing people on their holidays having a good time, and day after day, I’d be in the arcade watching them out there having fun.

We’d open at the beginning of March and close at the end of October. The arcade would be open every day, and when I wasn’t at school, 99% of the time I’d be there.

But the funny thing is, I learned more about life during those years than I realised.

I learned the value of sticking to something even when I didn’t want to do it.

I can remember calling out on the Bingo day after day, trying to get people inside and playing. I learned how to chat with all sorts of people of all age groups.

I learned how to do all manner of electrical things. I could wire up lighting, repair machines, rig up music systems and that kind of stuff before I was 14.

I learned to deal with salesmen and knew the value of goods through buying swag (prizes) with my parents.

And from my Dad, I learned that I could get half a day off once I’d worked half a day (12 hours)! Although not through the main six weeks...

I developed doggedness, of not giving up when things got hard during the hours we put in.

I learned all about discipline and responsibility here.

Most of the things I learned in those six years have served me well all my life.

And looking back now, I wish I could have those six years again working alongside my parents. I’d appreciate them and the lessons they taught me much more than I did the first time.

It’s hard to believe that 1981 was 45 years ago.

I remember my mum telling me how fast life goes by, but it didn’t really register until I look back now. It’s got me thinking how quickly I’ve gone from being a teenager to where I am now.

What’s surprising, though, although maybe it shouldn’t be, is that when I was young, people aged 60 or older seemed so old, and yet now I’m in that age range, I don’t feel old.

In my mind, I’m still in my 20s. Until my recent health problems, I used to say my body feels younger, maybe in my 40s, but as Robert assured me, when he’s building up his rides, he feels his age!

I look at this photo of my Dad and his best friend, his brother-in-law, my Uncle Jimmy and see them in their prime, both young men.

I remember the middle-aged versions who achieved so much, or at least that’s who I see in my mind’s eyes whenever I think of them.

Uncle Jimmy and my Dad always seemed like proper men, and even now, I don’t think of myself as one. When I look at photos of them, I still feel like a kid.

And yet here I am at 65 still feeling as though I’ve got loads to do.

Uncle Jimmy only made it to 57, as did my Uncle Henry Turner. I was 56 when I had the run-in with ‘The Squatter” I got lucky.

Perhaps that’s why I feel as though I still have loads to do.

As you may be aware, I’m from a showman family and extremely proud of my heritage.

I found out recently that Great Grandfather Thomas Murphy and my Great, Great Grandfather Charles North were both, at one stage, Committee Members on the South Wales section of the Showman’s Guild. My Dad travelled the fairgrounds of London & the Home Counties, and I have travelled on fairgrounds across London and the Home Counties, East Anglia, as well as in the West Country counties of Dorset, Somerset and Wiltshire at some stage.

As I get older, who I am, where I am, and who I come from become more important to me. There is a rich history in my family, and my Grandmother Rosie’s family, the Freeman-Biddalls, have had a book written about them as well.

As I’ve often said before on here, over the years and certainly as I was growing up, I saw the negative side of where I come from and through people’s ignorance have been called all sorts of names from ‘Smelly Pikey’ to ‘Thieving Gyppo’ (neither of which come close to who I am) and even copped a good hiding or two due to ignorant bullies ganging up on me.

As a culture in this country, showmen have, over many years, done so much good. During World War II, showmen even clubbed together and raised enough money to buy a Spitfire for the Air Force.

Like so many others, many showmen served and died for this country in wars, so it’s good to see recognition of that when they are honoured and represented during the parade on Remembrance Day.

I personally know of so many fund-raising things done by Showmen to help in their various communities, many of which have been unheralded in the way they’ve been reported.

And I could go on and on.

And yet, across this country, Showmen are misunderstood by huge swathes of people, including many local Government bodies, who neither understand nor care who we are and how we can positively impact their communities via the business.

You only need to go back to World War II to see how many showmen were asked by the Government to keep fairs open to boost the morale of the country.

And when visiting King’s Lynn Fair back in 1953, The Queen said to a showman, “You are a Kingdom within my Kingdom, look after it.”

So I was pleased to see the debate in the Scottish Parliament in support of Showmen recently.

I feel that Showmen never push themselves enough to let people know more about the positive impact they make across the UK.

Perhaps I could do more to aid that.

Over the last month or so, I’ve been thinking about it, and ideas have come to me about how I possibly could. Whether or not my talking about it on here ends up being the only way I could do that, time will tell.

But it’s certainly something to think about.

We’d do two sessions each day, we’d start at 2 o’clock until about 5 and then from 7 pm until we closed.

We’d start the first game as soon as we got 5 players.

This morning, I found myself singing one of the many Max Bygraves medleys from the ‘Singalong-A-Max’ LPs

And as I did, I was taken back to the bingo. We’d have one of his LPs playing in the background as we’d get the first few players in.

At the camp, there were two women, both in their 60s, who’d be there every weekend, and they’d be the first in.

Mrs Finch and Mrs Stacey. We couldn’t have managed without them. Both of them were from the Bristol area, and both of them sounded like the two old women on Gogglebox.

Mrs Finch would come in, go to her usual seat and start singing along to the songs. And Mrs Stacey would come to the door of the arcade and wait until whoever was on the microphone noticed her and waited to be announced in. And once you’d said “Hello, Mrs Stacey,” she’d nod at you and make her grand entrance. Once, I was on the microphone and welcomed her by saying, “ A-ha! It’s Lady Stacey. Welcome!” - Dad’s face was a picture. He thought she’d get the hump with me taking the mickey, but she loved it, and from that day forward, she only liked to be called Lady Stacey!

I’ve got to say those Max Bygraves LPs bring back such good memories of being in the bingo. Which is surprising, because I absolutely hated minding it. After all, I was only 14 or 15 and was surrounded by 60-year-old women for half of the day.

And in what seems like the click of my finger and thumb, I’m now almost as old as they were then!

People think they know you. People think they know who you are. Your family and friends think they know who you are, as do your acquaintances. But they’re all wrong.

The only person who actually knows who you are is you. You’re the only one who lives your life minute by minute.

There are people who’ve known me for years but still think of me in terms of how I was, for instance, in 1985. I know this because I do it too.

I’ve thought about this a lot since I had my run-in with ‘the lodger’ back in 2016.

I changed drastically, pretty much overnight. My thoughts, my attitudes, and my feelings changed in an instant and have continued to since then.

I am not the person I was last week, let alone in 1985 or 2016, for that matter.

If you’ve read my posts over the years, you’ll have heard me say that I’m only interested in making myself a better person, striving to do better.

I’ve learned that what other people think of me doesn’t really matter, as they only see me from their perspective, garnered from the experiences of their lives.

Your thoughts of who I am based on what you know about me aren’t correct because, like you, I change as each day passes. New experiences change each of us. We all only have a general opinion on who people are.

What we see on the news, on the telly, and hear from friends all have their own effect on us.

Instead of listening to all the ‘noise’ that surrounds us, if you want to know what’s true for you about something, look at how you’re feeling about it. That will tell you more.

If you and I heard a piece of news, we’d both feel something different about it. We’ll both see it from our perspectives.

I suppose what I’m saying is we all discover something new about ourselves each time we hear something new. And our opinions of others are based on the input we’ve received.

That’s why I don’t judge someone based on what someone else says. In fact, I try not to judge because I can only judge based on my experience. They’re the only person who can know themselves.

And because of that, my aim isn’t to try and work you out, it’s to work me out.

I know who I am, and to be honest, I’ve still got a way to go. So instead of trying to work out who others are, I’m only intent on determining who I want to be. And that will always be my ongoing aim.

I’ve no idea why I wanted to share that. After all, it’s only my opinion.

This morning, I heard two songs that transported me back to different places.

It’s the end of the summer of 1976, the six-week summer holiday is over, and we’ve been told that Lakeside Holiday Camp has been sold and the new owners don’t want our arcade and bingo on the camp next year, as they are changing the direction in which the camp is going.

Personally, I was stupid enough to be pleased, as I wanted to get away from Burnham and be out of the arcade. As a 16-year-old, the World was moving too slowly for me. I didn’t want to be stuck in the arcade all my life.

And this morning, hearing Sherbet’s song, ‘Howzat’, took me right back there. It came out in September, and I can remember hearing it and thinking “Howzat! We’re gonna be elsewhere next year.” I have to say I was excited, fool that I was.

And then a couple of songs later, Buddy Holly’s ‘Brown Eyed Handsome Man’ came on and I was back at Caversham in the middle of the summer in 1984.

I used to love opening at Caversham. We used to open alongside the River Thames; we’d be there for a month, and the weather was always lovely. We’d also take a few quid (which always helped!)

On top of that, I used to go into record-buying mode there each year.

As you walked out of the ground, you’d turn right, and there was a little parade of shops, one of which was a second-hand shop called, ‘Serendipity’ and they always had old records in there. And I always had a buy-up.

Not only that, but in Reading itself, there was a record shop called ‘Pop Records’, and they had a huge selection of old singles.

Buddy Holly’s single was one that I bought there in a large haul for only 20p. I used to spend way too much on records there, and I’d come back to the fairground with arms full of records.

I spent £100 on old singles there one week, most of which were 20p each - loads!

And when I’d get back, inevitably, Georgie Traylen would see me coming with my records, and it always amused him.

He’d come over to see what I’d bought, and he’d tell me I was born 20 years too late! I think he enjoyed seeing the oldies again.

Besides those records, the highlight of Caversham was the late-night barbecues after we closed.

We’d all go round David Traylen’s trailer, and outside, Violet would have a big table full of food and drink.

And for the next few hours, we’d all sit outside eating, drinking and laughing as Dorothy Smart would be telling funny stories, as Pat Wright would be standing there eating cold baked beans out of a tin, and Arthur Traylen would be tormenting whoever was his target for the night. And of course, David would be telling us about his day-to-day efforts to get his main helper, Henry, to realise that David was the boss and not him!

They were some of the greatest nights. Laid back, enjoyable and surrounded by good people. I just loved them.

So as you see, my music has the ability to take me back to some of my happiest days as well as some of the not-so-happy days as well.

But you know that already, don’t you? Because I’m sure it does the same for you.

I bought an old van, a trailer and cleaned them both up. In truth, that was the bit I enjoyed most.

.In a conversation about my plans with a friend of mine, Gary Penfold, I mentioned that I was looking for a set of mirrors as I was going to build a Mirror Show. His reply went along the lines of “I’ve got a Mirror Show in the shed in the yard, come and take that if you like.”

So I did!

We then bought some bits and pieces and started doing some fetes and shows, and eventually we went back on a few fairgrounds.

We even went as far as thinking about buying a ride, but in the end, we decided that the boys were too young, and they were still at school, and we weren’t sure the upheaval was a price we wanted to pay. So we settled for a set of trampolines that we could still use at the fetes.

After a few years, though, it became too much as I was doing discos 4-5 nights a week, and I was rapidly becoming a 7-day-a-week worker, DJing anywhere between London and Weymouth as well as doing the fetes.

In the end, we called it a day with the Showland equipment and concentrated on the discos, as it was too disruptive, not only to me but to the kids as well.

What it did do, however, was get me back in contact with a lot of showmen whom I’d drifted away from over the course of my years down the coast.

Here’s a little gallery of that journey…

People think they know you. People think they know who you are. Your family and friends think they know who you are, as do your acquaintances. But they’re all wrong.

The only person who actually knows who you are is you. You’re the only one who lives your life minute by minute.

There are people who’ve known me for years but still think of me in terms of how I was, for instance, in 1985. I know this because I do it too.

I’ve thought about this a lot since I had my run-in with ‘the lodger’ back in 2016.

I changed drastically, pretty much overnight. My thoughts, my attitudes, and my feelings changed in an instant and have continued to since then.

I am not the person I was last week, let alone in 1985 or 2016, for that matter.

I’ve learned that what other people think of me doesn’t really matter, as they only see me from their perspective, garnered from the experiences of their lives.

Your thoughts of who I am based on what you know about me aren’t correct because, like you, I change as each day passes. New experiences change each of us. We all only have a general opinion on who people are.

What we see on the news, on the telly, and hear from friends all have their own effect on us.

Instead of listening to all the ‘noise’ that surrounds us, if you want to know what’s true for you about something, look at how you’re feeling about it. That will tell you more.

If you and I heard a piece of news, we’d both feel something different about it. We’ll both see it from our perspectives.

I suppose what I’m saying is we all discover something new about ourselves each time we hear something new. And our opinions of others are based on the input we’ve received.

That’s why I don’t judge someone based on what someone else says. In fact, I try not to judge because I can only judge based on my experience. They’re the only person who can know themselves.

And because of that, my aim isn’t to try and work you out, it’s to work me out.

I know who I am, and to be honest, I’ve still got a way to go. So instead of trying to work out who others are, I’m only intent on determining who I want to be. And that will always be my ongoing aim.

I’ve no idea why I wanted to share that. After all, it’s only my opinion.

Hearing these today has brought back so many memories of that year.

There were a lot of showmen on the Pleasure Beach, and after having been pretty much on my own at Burnham on Sea, this was great for me - we worked hard, but had a great social life outside too.

I was 18 that summer and finding my way in the world. So much happened that year, so many friendships were made that are fondly remembered all these years later.

And of course, the music. Disco was coming into its own, and I just loved it. And these albums were a part of the soundtrack to the summer for me.

And being typically me, I was the only ride that played different music to everyone else.

All the other rides played the music from the jukebox situated in the Dodgems and fed to all the other rides.

I think it was about a week before I was sick of hearing the music on offer. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t bad. But I was too cool for school, and it wasn’t long before I asked Jimmy Jones if I could play my own music.

Luckily for me, he agreed, and I was playing these albums and more from then onward.

Happy days!

When they first came out, we were told that they had crystal clear sound. and were pretty much indestructible.

It was in the week running up to Easter 1987 that I bought my first CD player. I’d been dithering over buying one and, against my better judgement, bought one, hoping that I hadn’t wasted a fortune at the time.

The very first CD I bought was a CD single of a Lionel Richie song, “Se La.”

The reason I bought it was that it was only £1.25. I wanted to see how indestructible it was.

So I got home, stopped the car. put the CD on the floor in front of the driver’s side wheel (in its plastic carrier bag), got back into the car, drove over it and then reversed back over it.

I expected it to be smashed to pieces, and if not, to be scratched to pieces and unplayable.

I have to say, I couldn’t believe it when it played perfectly.

The next time I was in town, I bought my first CD album, Dire Straits ‘Brothers In Arms’.

I’ve still got both. It’s hard to believe that was 39 years ago!

I look back on my days in the yard at Rickmansworth when I first got married, and there’d always be someone to go out and have a talk to.

If I were painting in my shed, there’d be someone who’d come to see what I was up to and to have a chat.

If I were out in the yard working on my stuff, there would be others out there doing the same.

Either that or someone would have built a fire in the back of the yard to burn up some old wood lying around, and in ten minutes there’d be a group of showmen standing around having a good old talk.

At night, being one of the younger married couples in the yard, a few of the young ‘uns would come round, and we’d have a drink around our place, or someone would come up to have a laugh and a joke.

I could walk around my ‘in-law’s’ trailer, and there’d always be a kettle on and a few up there having a talk.

These days in my house, it’s just us. We chat with our neighbours about the weather and so on, but that’s about it.

My social life these days is pretty non-existant - occasionally I’ll see someone I know and we’ll have a chat, but more often as not, our life is quite insular.

Last year, I was talking to Pamela Smith about when we were in the yard at Rickmansworth and how I miss the people and the laughs we used to have, and she said to me, “We didn’t realise how good we had it.”

As I get older, I miss the camaraderie that used to be in a yard. I’m told that it’s different now.

And that’s a shame.

It’s true of fairgrounds as well - once upon a time, you’d pull on a ground with your homes as well as your equipment. Nowadays, people’s homes often stay in their yards, and people just commute to work.

That’s a shame too - all those close friendships that were built up over years of being on a ground and socialising are being lost, and I feel sorry for the generations that are losing out on what we had.

I loved the social side of being a showman, and it’s the part that I miss more as years go by.

In fact, the only parts of being a Showman I didn’t really enjoy so much were building up, pulling down, moving and minding. The rest was great!

I’ve caught up with so many on Facebook.

But it was a poor substitute for the days when we’d stand in the yard taking the mickey out of each other and having a good old laugh. The young ’uns would laugh with the old ‘uns with their stories, but we’d also learn so much from them as well.

Pamela was right - We didn’t realise how good we had it.

Back in the 60s and 70s, we had a machine called an autogift (pictured) in our arcade.

People would put 6d (2 1/2p) in the machine, and you would get a small surprise gift in a cigarette box-sized container.

World Cup Willie was the mascot for the England football team in the 1966 World Cup.

And back then, my Mum must have bought thousands of them to use as prizes on the autogift. After all, merchandising back then wasn’t like it is today. These badges were next to nothing to buy.

By 1970, however, we still had hundreds of them left. And I can remember my Dad saying to me, “Don’t forget to get rid of as many of those badges as you can”, when I was filling the containers for the autogift. We decided to put one in every five boxes. So over the course of 1970, we probably got rid of them all. My Dad was glad to see the back of them, having had them cluttering the shed up for four years.

Anyway, this morning, those World Cup Willie badges came into my head.

I wondered how many of them were still floating about. I had a Google, as you do, and found some photos on there of the badges,

And it turns out, they now sell in the region of £10 to £15 each!!

I wish we still had a box of them in the shed now.....

Have a great day!

As I didn’t support any particular team, it didn’t matter what football shirts I had. And I built up quite a collection that I could wear when I went out to play.

I had a blue one that could be Chelsea, Everton or Leicester. A white one would be Spurs, Leeds, and Real Madrid. I had a red and white striped one that could be Stoke City, Sunderland or Southampton. You get the idea.

And I had this little book called The Rothmans Football Yearbook. I’d open it up, and inside would be data on all the football games, and I’d go into our garage and, in my mind, play those games.

I’d pick a game and commentate on it as I played with the wall as my teammates. And I score each goal for either side.

And I did this for hours and hours...until I kicked the ball one day and it hit something in the garage, bounced up and smashed the fluorescent tube overhead!

From then on, it was outside only.

Me and my next-door neighbour, John Ashton, would go down the beach and play football for hours all through the winter. It would be jumpers for goalposts, and we’d take it in turns to be in goal.

If I had my red and white striped shirt on, I’d be Tony Currie, if it was the blue one I’d be Peter Osgood, the red one George Best and the white one I’d be Jimmy Greaves.

I remember when I got a pair of white football boots. I was Alan Ball. He was the only player with white boots at the time.

I got my Dad to take me to football training at the BAY Club at Burnham and eventually got picked to play in one of the age-group sides.

I was the industrious left-winger in the team, fast and creative. I was good with both feet and could make things happen.

On the weekends, we’d play against other teams in our age group. My Mum and Dad were my biggest supporters. They’d take me and a few others to all the away games.

And one sticks in my mind even to this day.

It was a game at Weston super Mare against another Under 12s side. The thing about that age group is that some kids are big for their age, and some are small.

I was one of the smaller kids. But I was fast, so wasn’t too bad.

After about ten minutes into the first half, I was getting past their right back too easily. So their manager changed their defence around and put their biggest player, their centre half, to mark me.

And he did. He knocked me all over the place. He was taller and bigger built than me. And he did a hatchet job on me. Whenever I tried to get past him, he’d knock me over, kick me or do anything to make sure I didn’t get past him.

And I loved it. Much more fun than you’d imagine.

Half-time came. And as we walked toward our trainer to get our orange slices. I saw my mum, striding across the pitch on a mission.

I watched in horror as she found that bigger boy and started to hit him with her handbag. One hit per syllable.

“Don’t you dare hit my boy again, you big bully!”

And then she started on their manager...

I wanted the ground to open and swallow me up! I was so embarrassed.

That was the last time I let my mum come to watch me play.

I bet none of the Xbox generation ever had that happen!

I was lying in bed listening to an oldies radio station when on came Brian Protheroe’s 1974 hit, ‘Pinball’, and I was taken back to our arcade on the holiday camp at Burnham on Sea.

I vividly remember being in the change desk in the arcade, listening to Radio 1 whilst doing my homework. It was the end of the season, and either the end of September or early October 1974.

The camp was pretty much empty, but we were still open as we always were right up until the camp closed at the end of the month.

I loved that song from the moment I heard it, and whenever it comes on, I’m back there.

And that song was followed not long after by Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, ‘Third Finger Left Hand,’ which reminded me of being at one of my niece’s weddings. It was a freezing cold day, and I was sitting in the church next to David Traylen, and he looked at me, grinned, reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a silver hipflask, undid the lid, passed it to me and said, “Have a drop of that. That’ll warm you up!” The song was played in the church that day.

And little fireworks kept popping from my brain from then on in.

I had these short little flashes of memories. I wish I had full recollection of them, and I don’t know why they stand out to me, but I caught little blasts of being at Victoria Park and playing outside the trailer and hearing Roger Miller’s ‘King Of The Road.’

And being sat up in mum and dad’s trailer with a little record player and watching the green Columbia record label going around as Chubby Checker sang, ‘Let’s Twist Again.’

And on and on it went, snippets of Big Dee Irwin’s, ‘Swinging On A Star,’ Shirley Ellis’, ‘The Clapping Song,’ Chris Montez’s, ‘Let’s Dance’, and Little Eva’s, ‘The Locomotion’ all came back to me, reminding me of being on fairgrounds when I was such a little boy.

Such short snippets of memories. I wish I had a greater recall of them.

They were such happy memories. I often have this happen. I hear a song, and straight away others start coming into my memory, some with fully formed memories, others with a snapshot that I can’t fully recall, but all of them bring me such joy.

They say that our brain takes in every moment from the minute we’re born and stores them. I just wish I could pull back those first four or five years. I’m pretty sure I was the luckiest kid to be surrounded by people who loved me, and no matter which fairground we were open on, I had friends to play with, and I’m pretty sure that I wanted to be mates with all my elder sister’s teen mates too! I’ve been told before about going round their trailers and wanting them to play their records for me.

If it wasn’t for music, though, I don’t think I’d ever remember anything!