Teenage Years
By: Jules May
Tags: Teenagers, The A Team, Village Life, True Story, Yorkshire

Teenage Years

The years 1986 to 1990 were exciting. We were teenagers. We were free, we were brimming with ideas and we were part of something bigger than ourselves; a gang I guess you’d call it. We were all connected and we seemed to live life to the full. The village, the surrounding countryside and the nearby hills were ours. We were free. The only limit was our imagination, (and having to be back home before dark on a school night).

Back then, Royslip Chilton was a sleepy village of around 400 inhabitants. A long settlement, which followed the route of the beck, (a beck is a Yorkshire stream) Green, grassy banks rose up from either side of the beck, to narrow roads and rows of old houses, which nestled along either flank of the village. There was a picturesque church, with a tall spire, in the centre of the village. There was one little shop, one pub, and a garage, which serviced tractors and farm machinery. There was an old village hall, with a wooden floor, which was used for special events, beetle drives, weddings and discos. There were ‘playing fields’; a cricket pitch, swings and a roundabout for kids. There was a football pitch to one side. Tennis courts too, but they didn’t get much use.

Chilton sat nestled at the foot of the Yorkshire Wolds, a mile or two from Garrowby Hill, (where the A66 climbs up from the flatlands around York, to the rolling chalk hills which lead to the coast, to Scarborough and Bridlington eventually) Lord Halifax owned most of the land. Tenant farmers grew wheat and barley mostly. There were fields of sugarbeet and potatoes as well. Sheep roamed the steep hillsides. The woodland between the village and the A66 had been planted with conifers and this artificial woodland was used for rearing pheasants. Gamekeepers with shotguns patrolled these woods. They usually had one or two dogs with them. When the birds were fully grown, Halifax would invite wealthy aristocrats from all over Europe to come and shoot them. All that time, effort and money to rear those stupid birds to full size and then they’re shot for sport. I guess they couldn’t be eaten, because the carcass would be full of lead.

‘Danny, the Champion of the World’ had been my favourite book at primary school. Roald Dahl’s beautiful tale of a father and son who lived in a gipsy caravan and poached peasants occasionally. Therefore, the idea of poaching peasants seemed romantic and cavalier to us. We’d take one now and again. If we’d been able to procure sleeping pills, we would have definitely tried to re-enact Danny’s epic, fictional success.

My bedroom looked out to Campbell’s Hill. Lumpy, grass fields stretching up to patches of unmanaged woodland at the crest of the hill. Nature beckoned constantly. We were often up there in the hills, walking Mac’s dog, or just walking, or building something, (a rope swing, a den, a trap, or a snow cave in winter). Hours and hours spent observing wildlife and exploring. Dissecting owl pellets, collecting feathers, noticing the details in nature. Occasionally, we were allowed to camp out and have a fire. Those nights were special, talking around the campfire, telling stories, watching the stars and cooking our own food. Baked beans were standard. Easy to cook, (placing the opened tin on the edge of the fire and then stirring it constantly with a metal spoon. Melting your face until the beans were hot)

One night Gary pulled a tin of cadet rations from his bag. He said he didn’t like ‘bacon burgers’ and he threw the tin into the fire. None of us noticed really. Or maybe we were all unaware of some basic principles in physics? …if air is heated within a sealed container, it expands. We’d made a big fire. Some time later, when we were all half-drunk and the fire was in a perfect state for story-telling, the tin exploded, splattering our bare arms and faces in boiling hot splashes of liquefied meat. The blast also showered our legs in orange-hot, heat-pulsating, embers of wood. Burning debris melted tiny holes into the roofs of our nylon tents. We sobered-up instantly and probably berated Gary for the rest of the night.

We were all very different characters, but when you grow up in a small village, you have no choice. You hang out with whoever is available. Mac was two years older. Nick was in the year above. Gary and I were the same age. At school we all had different sets of friends, but back in the village -in the evenings, the weekends and over the school holidays- we were a loyal pack of friends. It’s all a blur really, when these events happened, (ages, years, times..) but they definitely happened. Maybe it’s the same for everyone’s teenage memories? There’s a lot happening during those years. The good times were amazing and the bad times were disastrous, but only for a day or two. Everything was constantly changing. The summer holidays seemed to last forever, but we made every day into an adventure.

The year was 1986, (or 87, or 88… who knows) Boys were men in those days. They made bombs, they lit fires, they camped-out, they shot each other, they boxed, (until someone got hurt) they stole, (well, borrowed) their parent’s cars. Actually, that was later. These boys knew the thrill of joy-riding a tractor in the middle of the night. They scratched their names into the dark, smoke-stained wood of the bus shelter’s interior. They rode down grassy hills on their bikes, before mountain-biking had been invented. They kissed girls, occasionally… maybe after a youth club disco, if the girl was a bit drunk, or a bit desperate. These were wild times.

These boys were more manly than most men these days, (except for those SAS fellas). They were rebels; fearful, yet courageous. ‘Young, dumb and full of cum’ as the saying goes. Outlaws. They were commandos. One determined individual might sometimes set an alarm for 4am, throw on some old camouflage gear and walk round to Nicky Trefton’s house in the dark. The young commando would tap on Nick’s bedroom window. Nick may have forgotten our arrangement and he may have neglected to set an alarm. As he brushed aside a gap in his curtains, he may have been surprised to see a gang of warriors, in full warpaint, carrying air-rifles, lurking menacingly in the shadows outside.

On those commando expeditions, we’d stalk rabbits in the soft, golden-dawn light, (watching them chewing grass and sniffing the air… lining-up their heads in the crosshairs of the telescopic sights) They sensed the nearby danger, but they couldn’t see us. We were too stealthy for those minor mammals. Most of the time we didn’t pull the trigger. What’s the point? What do you do with a dead rabbit? We attempted to cook one once. We skinned it with our penknives, (standard kit… always carry a knife) We threw its guts to the circling eagles, (crows actually) and spit-roasted the skinny carcass. On a roaring fire, we seared its flesh and sealed our victory. Someone took a big bite and immediately spat it out again. The meat was crusty black on the outside and juicy, raw pink on the inside. Not tasty apparently. We were warriors, but we hadn’t yet mastered the art of barbecuing, like our ancestors, (Dads).

‘Survival weekends’ usually lasted half a day, at most. Nettle soup tastes worse than boiled water and foraged, (stolen) potatoes took an age to boil and still tasted inedible. Survival rations usually consisted of a tin of soup, Heinz tomato soup normally. When that tin had been consumed we’d wander home again.

We had guns, girls, (sometimes) and secret hideouts. We were living the dream.

After the age of 14, we were drinking alcohol fairly regularly, (most weekends). We were gambling, (four card brag usually, or a day-long game of Risk). We would take calculated risks in order to marvel at the female form. In the dark, on a weeknight, we might climb up onto the windowsill of Nick’s garage, to witness the spectacle of Joanne Maylor undressing. The outline of her chest may have only been in silhouette and we may have only seen her for a few seconds, but it was fun all the same and it seemed to be worth the effort. We laughed a lot. Joanne wasn’t particularly attractive, so perhaps the fun was simply because that kind of behaviour isn’t acceptable? We took simple pleasure in the things that we weren’t allowed to do.

We were legends and we didn’t even know it. We were just living free; wild. Well, outside of school hours we were free. The only limits were our adolescent imaginations. We were a band of misfits, outlaws, rebels. We were invincible, when Nick’s older brother and his mates weren’t around. Or Pete Slater and Slim. Or Jumpy Johnson and Lee. We were feared and admired by the under tens. We were worshiped by our mothers, some of the time. Perhaps not so much in James’ case. His Mum was constantly shouting at him. Waiting outside his house, for him to get ready, (he was always late) we’d listen to the cries of his mother from inside and be thankful that the shouting wasn’t directed at us.

There were always friends around when I was a young. Whenever you had free time, you were calling for someone, (knocking on their parent’s door and asking if they were playing) or someone came calling for you. We were hardly ever bored and we were hardly ever on our own. There were no mobile phones and parents didn’t know where we were half the time. Often we’d be racing around the village on our bikes.

We all had bikes back in those days. BMXs were the craze. Small-wheeled, shiny bikes, made of chrome, or whatever. They had padding along the crossbar and padding spanning the handlebars. ‘Raleigh’ was a sign of your family’s magnificent wealth. If your parents were properly rich, or if you had a part-time job, then you might be able to dream of a ‘Mongoose’, or a ‘Diamond Back’, or a next level ‘Burner’. I’d been gifted, (a combined birthday AND Christmas present) a Raleigh Grifter just prior to the BMX phenomenon, so I had to make do with that. I was attempting to pop wheelies and perform aerial tricks, (over jumps, that were crudely constructed out of bricks and lengths of wood) But, my bike was twice as heavy as the BMXs of my comrades. It wasn’t designed for doing jumps. I’d often land front wheel first and go flying straight over the handlebars. My forks would bend. If my Dad was around, he’d help straighten out my steel forks, using the vice in our garage. That Grifter took some beatings. Nobody ever wanted to swap bikes with me, for more than ten minutes. Mine was shit. No, it wasn’t. It just wasn’t made for performing tricks. It was a tank; bright red, with three gears fitted into the right handle bar grip. The easy gear was required just to get that much metal moving. Once I had momentum, I could go pretty fast. I would’ve loved a ‘Tuff Burner’ or a ‘Mag Burner’. I would’ve given my soul, or my little finger, for one of those beautiful, lightweight, aerodynamic models. The designers at Raleigh, in Nottingham, had us by the balls. We would’ve lied to teachers, deceived our grandparents, even nicked stuff from shops, if it meant that we could own the latest ‘Burner’, with a gregarious paint job, plastic mag wheels, matching trim, extra-grippy grips and chrome pegs. Birthdays and Christmases came and went, but I was informed that I already had a bike. My parents didn’t understand.

After seeing ‘Top Gun’ at the cinema, (in the autumn of 1986) we all sped around the village green singing “high-way-to-the DANGER ZONE” really loud, with our open Parka coats flapping behind us. I must have got excited and attempted the door-ramp jump in the darkness. Just like Tom Cruise’s wingman, I couldn’t pull up in time and it all ended in disaster. I would’ve just turned 13. I was quite immature I suspect. We all were.

We were mountain biking before anyone had heard of a mountain bike. We simply pushed our bikes up grassy hills and then rode downhill as fast as we could, trying to avoid the rabbit holes. If your front wheel jammed into a rabbit hole whilst travelling at speed, then you’d be flung over the handlebars, (and probably winded) before you knew what had happened. Sometimes we’d push our bikes to the top of Garrowby Hill and descend as fast as we could. If you could get to the bottom without touching your brakes, then you were a real man. Sometimes we’d ride into the course sand of the emergency stopping track at the bottom of the hill, (to test if it actually worked) Speed always gave us a buzz when we were young.

There was a huge telecommunications tower on the top of Garrowby Hill. Some nights we’d scale the high, barbed-wire fence and climb up the metal tower. It was cold up there. We’d take wooly hats, gloves and hip-flasks full of whisky. On a clear night we could see for miles over the Vale of York, to the Minster. There must’ve been some joy in being high up? We were often climbing up things; towers, houses, trees, haystacks, etc.

The death slide that we constructed in the churchyard was good fun. We tied a blue nylon rope from the top of the biggest yew tree, to the fence at the back of the graveyard and then proceeded to slide down the rope, using a short piece of grey, plastic drainpipe. A loop of rope through the pipe acted as a handle and enabled each rider to hang on as they flew down the death slide. Each ‘go’ burnt a little more of the plastic pipe and soon there was a rope-thick groove along either end of the pipe. I remember having one last go, when there was only an inch of pipe remaining, but the pipe burnt through mid-way and I fell, landing heavily on my arse. Friends gathered around, concerned at first, then laughing, as I lay on the earth gasping for breath, rapidly gulping at the air like a fish out of water. Being winded as a child was a fairly common occurrence. A punch to the stomach, or a big fall off your bike, would often result in a painful and slightly embarrassing few minutes of being winded.

One day we built a kite out of scaffolding poles. We ‘borrowed’ (I guess we stole them) poles, tarpaulin and rope, from a building site and then attempted to build the world’s largest kite. We carried the massive structure up to the top of the hill. We tied one end of the rope to the base of a huge tree trunk and the other end of the rope to the crux of the kite. We then simply lifted the nose of the kite into the gusting wind. The metal cross was ripped upwards out of our hands. The kite shot up, into the blue sky. It flew fifty metres above our heads, for a good few minutes, before it came crashing down to earth. The tip of the kite hit the ground with such force, that we couldn’t free it. So, we had no choice but to leave it there, sticking out of the chalk hillside.

Many years later, I wrote a short film about that day and eventually managed to show it to my friends at the local cinema. I won £15,000 worth of funding for the script of that story and along with a friend of mine, Tom, I spent six months producing, filming and editing that eleven minute film. You wouldn’t believe the pain, suffering and joy that went into making that ELEVEN minute piece, (unless you’re a low-budget film-maker). The film was shown at the London Film Festival in the autumn of 2002 and then later on television. The British Council took it to festivals around the world, (it went down very well in Iran, funnily enough). Mum seemed to like it, especially seeing herself on the big screen at the National Film Theatre. I got her a small acting part in the film, as ‘angry mother’, (which she was able to play very convincingly). I think that was one of the few times that I have felt proud of my achievements, sitting there next to my Mum at the film premiere.

Mac had a Honda C90, which went dangerously fast. That moped was great fun. We often went bouncing over stumble fields on it and we were sometimes chased by angry farmers. The headlight must have been broken, because I can distinctly remember bombing down the back lane, at night, with a large torch Sellotaped to the top of the handlebars. The beam from the torchlight was so weak, that the driver could barely see where he was going. Consequently, travelling at 50 mph along a dirt track became the most exciting ride in the world. The C90 had a long seat, so there were often three of us on the moped at any one time. Luckily we never fell off. There were plenty more high speed capers later on, when we passed our driving tests. I remember hanging onto the side of Nick’s car, (with my arm looped through the front and back window) whilst wearing his sister’s metal roller-skates. I think we hit about 55 mph before the tiny, plastic wheels started burning up. I remember having a go on Nick’s new NSR 125cc road bike and overtaking cars along the top road at about 90 mph. The feeling of simply leaning out to overtake cars was wonderful and the acceleration was exhilarating, even on that 125. I could understand why some men spend their whole lives riding huge motorbikes, after experiencing that sensation first hand. Nick’s gleaming, white bike was eventually destroyed in an accident. He was riding to work one day, along a straight stretch of road, when a car turned right in front of him. He collided with the front, offside wing and flew clean over the top of the car. Apparently he landed a long way down the road. He was travelling so fast that the bike was squashed to half its original length and the car had to be written-off, (destroyed). I think he broke his arm and needed loads of stitches in his legs, but he was OK after a few months. The lady driving the car was a friend of Nick’s family. She said that she hadn’t seen the motorbike coming towards her, due to the low winter sun in her eyes.

In the winters of the 1980s, before ‘global warming’ and ‘climate change’, we used to get proper snow falls on the Yorkshire Wolds. As a child, there was a tremendous feeling of excitement, when I opened my bedroom curtains and saw that the hills and fields were deep with fresh, pristine, white snow. Fun was almost guaranteed on a day like that. If it was a school day, then we would compact the snow and make slides across the playground. We would have epic snowball fights around the school buildings and target figures of authority, if they had the audacity to take a stroll across the playground. Snowy weekends were even better; we’d go sledging up in the hills, or dig snow holes out of the drifts. If the snow was firm, on a very cold night and packed down well, we’d take our metal sledges up Wosendale Road and come down the icy tarmac in a train formation, (trying to hang onto each others’ ankles). Whoever was last in the train would generally get flung off into the ditch, as the snaking turns became more exaggerated towards the end of the train. If the snow was powdery and loose, then we’d take plastic sledges up to the steeper hillsides. We once borrowed Mr MacNallian’s three-man dinghy and took it to a very steep valley, opposite the chalk pit. The ride was intense. With the weight of three teenagers in the boat, the vessel gained speed very easily. Resistance between the dinghy’s plastic bottom and the snowy incline was minimal, so we’d practically take off during the descents. The dinghy would fly down one valley side and go halfway up the other side, before coming to rest in the valley bottom.

Stephen Billingham was a haemophiliac, which meant that he couldn’t join in with many of our games. However, the snow-boating was such good fun, that we persuaded him to have a go. He was wedged in between Nick and Mac. At the top of the slope he’d been assured that it was all perfectly safe. I watched from below as they let go of the fence at the top of the valley. The dingy quickly picked up speed and the bulbous, yellow nose began to lift off the snow. They must have been sitting too far back, because, halfway down the slope, (at near maximum velocity) the whole thing flipped upside down. I saw Stephen’s skinny body tossed through the air, as the dingy capsized. It seemed to happen in slow-motion. His helpless, rag-doll silhouette offered no resistance to the fall. We frantically dug him out of the deep snow and placed him on a stretcher, (sledge) We dragged him all the way back to his house and delivered him to his distraught parents. Apparently he had to be given emergency ‘factor eight’ injections, to prevent internal bleeding. His mother was not pleased with us.

The games we played as kids were fun, but as we got older, the games became more and more risky. Experimenting with explosives and starting small fires was popular for a while. I remember accidentally setting fire to Andrew Hean’s trousers with an improvised flamethrower, made out of a fairy liquid bottle which had been filled with petrol. We would make our own molotov cocktails, (petrol bombs) out of jam jars, or milk bottles, and throw them at an old brick wall near the secluded sewage works. We once inserted crow bangers into ripe grapefruits and bowled them down the road in the middle of the village. Luckily there were no cars coming. We would dismantle fireworks and gun cartridges, to construct our own bombs. Today, that would be labelled terrorism, but to us it was experimentation and fun. I once made a device from a piece of copper tubing filled with gunpowder and a couple of Duracell batteries rammed into the ends. We set it off at the playing fields one dark night. I lit it and ran away. It exploded and vanished. There was no debris to be found, no bits of metal, it just vanished. A flying battery could have gone through someone’s window.

Living rebellious lives, our bodies were scarred. Injuries were common. Falling from death slides, or rope swings. Falling off fences, walls, or out of trees. Getting skin hooked on barbed wire, or brambles. Football injuries, (knees, ankles, or dead legs) Burns from small fires, or from molten plastic, or from hot motorbike exhausts on a bare lower leg. We were Action Men, we were Knight Riders, we were Luke Skywalkers, we were Thundercats, we were the juvenile delinquent A-Team. Each man had a special skill. Mac was the ideas man, the nutter, often suggesting dares that nobody else had dreamed of. He was our Hannibal, our leader, (usually) Nick was a gobshite, always talking, (like a curly-haired version of Face) He was also a weapons expert. He had a Weihrauch 2.2 air rifle, (much more powerful than our old 1.77 rifles) He had a Black Widow catapult, (a deadly weapon in the wrong hands) He also had nunchucks and a judo outfit, for hand-to-hand combat. If Gary had known how to fly a helicopter, he would’ve been our Mad-dog Murdock. He was a bit mad, sometimes. I guess he was our communications expert. He lived on the council estate. He knew all the families up there. He could safely liaise with Pete, Slim, Jumpy and all that gang. They liked him. He was a likeable kid. We were safe if Gary was in our party. I was the exact opposite of Mr T; a skinny, shy, unassuming white kid, who couldn’t afford jewelry. I guess the A-Team analogy ends there. I liked to think of myself as a ninja. I was invisible. Being innately cowardly made me cautious and illusive, like a frightened cat, or a chimerical Pine Marten. I didn’t have a known family in the village, so I was generally untraceable.

Nick shot Mac through the face once. It was an accident. We were undertaking special manoeuvres, up at the Quarry. It was a war, but there were rules. There were two teams. Each soldier had a rifle. We were all wearing jeans. The main rule was, only shoot your enemy in the legs. A lead pellet hitting you on the thigh hurt like hell and left a tiny purple bruise, but it didn’t usually pierce the denim. Therefore, getting shot was painful, but not life-threatening. It was a hot, sunny day. It must’ve been in the summer holidays, when we were bored and thinking-up games to play. After an hour or so of scurrying up and down steep slopes, in-between the trees, the two teams had each other pinned-down behind mounds of dry, tufted grass. The only way to get a shot off was to quickly stand-up, (sticking your head above the safety of the grassy trench) take aim at an enemy scalp and fire. Obviously we couldn’t see our enemy’s legs at that point, so the rules of war were abandoned. A couple of bullets, (pellets) fizzed past our ears and thudded into the earth behind us. Nick leapt up and retaliated with a shot. Unfortunately, Nick was quite a good marksman and Mac was hit in the face. I saw him fall backwards in slow-motion, holding his weapon out to his side at arm’s length. It looked like that famous image captured by the war photographer Robert Capa, during the Spanish Civil War, (The Falling Soldier) There was a distant gargle and Mac toppled down the bank. We dropped our weapons and ran over to the enemy trench. Mac was lying in the long grass below, clutching the side of his face. The pellet had entered his check and was lodged in his lower jaw. There was a little bit of blood. He was obviously in a lot of pain. I had my penknife. I offered to dig it out, but Mac squirmed at the sight of my blade. We had to get help. One of our group walked to the nearby farm and asked to use their telephone. Mr MacNallian was informed of his son’s accident. We could hear Mac’s Dad coming from a long way off. The sound of that old, VW Beetle engine was quite distinctive.

I was surprised and relieved to find that Mr MacNallian believed our story. We told him that we had been shooting tin cans and Mac was hit by a ricochet. It was an accident. Nobody grassed. We were loyal. We didn’t betray each other. There was an unspoken code; nobody ever grassed on a comrade. So, no harm done. Well, perhaps some lead poisoning and a permanent facial scar. But, no real harm done.

Sex wasn’t on the cards at that age. It wasn’t available. Well, to me anyway. Mac had done it, so he said. He’d done it loads of times, so he said. He was two years older. He could get it easily, so he said. In a teenage timeframe, two years is a vast amount of time. We younger ones were happy fondling a breast under a jumper and snogging. Those activities felt good. Snogging was great. We designed a snogging game once. A boy crawled along a dark, straw-bale lined tunnel, (made by chance, deep under tonnes of compacted straw, as the farmers were building their mountain of rectangular bales) The boy would crawl along the dusty tunnel, blindly feeling his way along the course chaff passage, as an excited feeling of anticipation rose warm his belly. At the end of the tunnel one of the girls was waiting in silence. We didn’t know which one, because they had another entrance, (a gap in the bales near to the tunnels end) In total darkness and without using hands, the boy and girl would gently make contact with their lips. The mystery female would initiate and the snogging commenced. In the absence of social hierarchy, or spectators, or any limiting mental judgements, the two could simply enjoy the simple act of kissing, in the darkness. Ahhh… it was blissful. I imagine that the duration of the kiss lasted as long as either party was enjoying the process. After the kiss, the boy would shuffle around in the tunnel and crawl back to his waiting friends outside. We could hear the girls giggling from the other end. The boy would then shout out the name of the girl he believed that he’d kissed. The girls would confirm, or deny the accusation. That was a fun game. Everyone enjoyed an anonymous snog. Those were the days before we’d heard of herpes, or AIDS and the days of Covid-19 were yet to be conceived. Innocent times. Maybe that was earlier than ‘86? Maybe it was ‘84, or ‘85? Who knows? I can’t remember.

Back then it was possible to get into all sorts of ‘mischief’ which nowadays would be regarded as ‘criminal’. Taking our parent’s cars for joyrides, while they were out, was a bit dangerous, (especially, because we weren’t particularly good drivers at the age of fifteen, or sixteen). One fine, bright day, we all skived-off, (bunked-off, or in adult terminology, we played truant) school and went for an excursion in the VW Beetle which belonged to Mac’s parents. We’d planned it all meticulously. We’d hidden civilian clothing and disguises at the bottom of our school bags. We hid in the bus shelter until the school bus had passed and waited there until our parents had all gone off to work. The time must’ve been around 8.30am. Then we got changed in Mac’s garage. He started-up the old car and we took off into the hills, slowly. Mac was driving. He was wearing a flat cap, a pair of spectacles and a furry, stick-on moustache. Nick was in the passenger seat, wearing a floral headscarf and an old shawl. Me and Gary were hidden in the back, under a tartan blanket. We drove up to Billington Pastures, in second gear, for most of the journey, (Mac had trouble finding the gears) Then when we had reached our destination, we had a picnic. I remember Mac’s tache kept falling off, and there was a moment of panic as a car passed us, just as I was sticking it back in place with a dab of Copydex glue. The old couple in the other car gave us a queer look.

We took an old tractor for a spin one night, around an empty field. After hitting the first stack of bales, we realised that the field wasn’t empty. It was very exciting. The cab was full of teenage bodies and the driver didn’t have much room to maneuver. It was a dark night. We kept the headlights switched off. Although, the sound of a big diesel engine screaming and teenage laughter must’ve carried on the still night air. We got into big trouble for that. The farmer wasn’t happy. He threatened to call the police. If our parents, (or the police) knew half the things that we did back then, we might have been taken away. These days, adventurous, free-thinking youths are probably locked-up in some kind of detention centre for doing the same things that we did.

Growing up in a small village, with a bunch of misfits, was always fun. The police came to our house on three separate occasions. It was always terrifying to see a uniformed officer standing at the back door… and thinking back, it must have been awful for my poor mother. I think his name was PC Camage, but we all called him Cabbage. I presume that he was the officer who dealt with youth crime and minor offences. He was a pleasant, grey-haired gentleman, with a thin frame and a sympathetic smile. He accepted cups of tea without hesitation and nodded at my mother with parental understanding. He once came knocking to determine if I had been the one who had entered a newly built house at the end of our street. Someone had put a big hole through one of the plasterboards. The builders weren’t happy. More expense for them. The new houses were located near my house, so Cabbage came sniffing around our house first. But, it wasn’t me, it was Gary. However, we always followed the rule that you don’t grass on your mates. (I could have been a loyal member of an Italian-American family; someone quiet and dependable. Al Pacino in Godfather II was one of my cinematic heroes back then).

In truth Gary had slipped off the beams in the attic and put his stupid leg through the ceiling. Because I didn’t grass and because I didn’t tell the truth either, then I kind of got the blame. Both Cabbage and my Mum thought that it was me. The second time he came to our door was due to complaints about fireworks. Someone had been setting fireworks off in the village one night. It’s true that I was involved, but there was no direct evidence linking me to that crime. I think that I confessed to that one, because Cabbage didn’t seem particularly bothered either way, and it would all be over much quicker if I just admitted to it and apologised.

The third time was more serious, PC French came knocking. PC French looked just like an 80’s cartoon character called Captain Pugwash, he was rotund and he had a black goatee beard. I wasn’t actually at home when he called, but my Mum said that I’d been officially, unofficially cautioned. Apparently, it’s quite a serious offence, impersonating a police officer. Fat Frenchy warned my mother that I would be in big trouble if I didn’t stop doing it. The reason that I wasn’t at home when Frenchy called, was because I was still out on the beat, patrolling the village. My friend Greg and I made ourselves a couple of very convincing uniforms. Greg’s uncle and grandfather worked for the ambulance service, so we were able to ‘borrow’ a couple of long, black woollen coats and decorate them with silver details. We copied real police epaulettes, making perfect numbers and letters out of cardboard, and then wrapping them in silver foil. We bought police hats from a toy shop in York and we made ourselves some police radios, (by recording real police messages from the radio onto dictaphones). The hidden devices were playing in our top pockets and sounded totally credible, even up close.

We would patrol the local town after dark, walking by pubs, just after closing time, frightening drunken men. Pub car parks were fun. Men would come staggering out holding their car keys, then see us and walk in the other direction. We probably averted a few accidents. Cars would slow down dramatically when they spotted us strolling down the pavement, in the glow of the orange street lamps. One night, we were getting a bit bored, so we thought that we’d do some public relations work for the local force. We took another friend, Anthony, who was wearing plain clothes, to a sharp bend on the edge of town. He’d lie on the pavement before a car approached and then when the car headlights were almost on us, we’d pretend to kick Anthony in the head and body. He’d be screaming for mercy and writhing around on the ground. Anthony could’ve won a Bafta for his performances. In the blur of the car headlights, those scenes must have looked totally authentic. Some of the expressions on the car owners’ faces were priceless. Greg and I would immediately stop kicking our victim, once the car headlights were on us, and try to look incredulous. Great actors can do that; switch their emotions in the blink of eye, from brutal aggression, to passive innocence. After a few weeks on the beat, someone finally recognised us and grassed us up to the real police.

We were drinking alcohol on the weekends, on a Friday, or Saturday night. Special Brew and barley wine were popular, because of the high alcohol content and low cost. One can of Special Brew would be sufficient for total inebriation, (less than £1) Diamond White cider was popular, especially with the girls. Most girls didn’t drink Special Brew. It tasted disgusting. This was a time before ‘alcopops’. We made our own. If you wanted to get really smashed, you could add orange squash to vodka, or coke to rum. Actually, you could mix coke with every spirit. Prior to a house party, we’d usually raid our parent’s drinks cabinets and syphon-off a small measure from each bottle of spirits. The resulting cocktail was a deadly concoction, 40% proof. Martini Rosso, (15%) was a good option for the sensitive palate. It was sweet, pleasant enough to drink and half a bottle would be enough for drunkenness.

There was always someone, (of legal age) who could be persuaded to buy us alcohol. A friend’s older brother usually. Outside the pub, we might apprehend an unsuspecting adult and thrust a handful of collected coins into their palm. Some men walked down to the pub every night. Tish Lawson for example. Although, he was special. He’d been gassed in the war, (so they said) and he wasn’t all there. He’d tap his head when he saw us and pretend to write our names into his invisible notebook. He sat in the same seat and drank the same beer every, single night. Unless he’d caused a scene and he’d been banned by the landlord. However, he spent so much money in the pub, that his ban was usually lifted again after a week or so. Friday nights in The Fleece were busy. It was ‘Country and Western’ night. Some bozo in a big hat, singing cowboy songs. The old ladies loved it. Saturday nights were busy too, but with a different clientele. The middle-aged and middle class usually. Our parents would sometimes be spotted in there on a Saturday night. That was a good night for ‘garden creeping’.

‘Garden creeping’ was a daring game, which involved sneaking through private gardens late at night. Connecting as many gardens as possible, without being detected. Traversing across lawns, through bushes and over walls. The gardens of dog owners were particularly thrilling, as the beast might be prowling loose around the property. Some properties were difficult to enter, due to high walls, fences, thick hedges, sensor lights, crunchy gravel in the driveway, or worst of all, a dog. A barking dog was the strongest deterrent. There was usually some way to gain entry at the back of a garden. Pushing through a gap in the conifers for example, or scaling a brick wall. A test of courage was to see if you could navigate your way across the lawn to the back windows, (many homeowners would leave their back curtains open, believing they had total privacy, so the illumination from well-lit living rooms would seep out across the lawn) One had to have big balls in order to approach the house and risk being seen by the owner. Nearing the window became increasingly perilous. One particular family in the village seemed to have a no-clothes policy when they were at home. Consequently, their garden was a regular hang-out. The opportunity of seeing a mature woman, completely naked, was quite enticing.

In those days computer games were mostly played on an Atari, a Commodore 64, or a ZX Spectrum. I had a BBC ‘B’ computer, which was the same model as the one we used at school. I guess my parents thought it best that I should have a machine which was associated with education. Nick’s older brother had a ZX Spectrum and he allowed us to use it sometimes. He had a variety of different games. There were games such as Pac Man and Donkey Kong, which came on a cassette and took ages to load, (accompanied by an awful two-tone screeching sound). Manic Miner, Chucky Egg, Sonic the Hedgehog and Mario came a bit later I think. I remember playing Donkey Kong late into the night. That was my favourite. After saying goodnight to Mum, I’d stuff my dressing gown against the bottom of the door and plug in my headphones, playing surreptitiously late into the night. Following those arcade style games, there was a game that was set in outer space, called Elite. This would devour our time. Nick and I played it at his uncle’s house. The game was so basic; just planets, spaceships and space stations drawn with white lines on a black screen, but it was highly addictive. We’d waste entire days playing that game. If you traded weapons, or narcotics, then the police ships would come racing after you. The risks were greater, but then so were the rewards.

Those were the days of Hubba Bubba, (big bubbles, no troubles), Wham bars, Fruit salads, Refreshers and Chewitts. I would always have a half-eaten packet of Chewits in the pocket of my coat. Caustic, powdery crisps were very popular in those days; Monster Munch, Nik Naks, (nice ‘n’ spicy) Chipsticks, Wotsits and Space Invaders. It’s funny how tastes change. I would struggle to eat a packet of Wotsits now. Pungent, orange, cheese dust bubbles don’t seem so appetising these days. I have hundreds of good memories from those days. There were plenty of bad times too, but I don’t ever remember being sad back then and if I was then it didn’t seem to last long. Perhaps young people are better at living in the moment and making the best of what they’ve got? Perhaps they don’t think about things too much, or dwell on sadness. They just tend to amuse themselves with whatever resources are available to them. Or, perhaps our brains like to mislay bad memories and just hang onto the good ones? Perhaps everything is better in hindsight?

In 1986 the space shuttle ‘Challenger’ exploded in the USA. It disintegrated, 73 seconds after lift-off, on live TV. The nuclear power plant at Chernobyl, in the Ukraine, exploded. The resulting radioactive cloud drifted over northern Europe. Most people were unaware of the health risks and life-long implications of radioactivity. Many years later, whilst working in the Czech Republic, I discovered that the Czech government had decided not to inform their citizens about the nuclear disaster back in ‘86. That autumn, in northern Czechoslovakia, the forest floors were covered in mushrooms, (more than had ever been seen in previous years) The Czech people happily foraged their fungi and consumed more than their fair share of radioactivity. Often it’s only in hindsight that we realise the effects of government decisions.

BSE, (a disease commonly known as ‘Mad Cow Disease’) erupted in the UK. We saw images on TV of Fresian cows trembling, unable to walk and staggering around farm yards. Footage of flames raging over pyres of bloated, black and white carcasses. Apparently, for many years, animal feed contained the processed remains of other dead animals. Meat and bone meal, (MBM) they called it. They fed millions of herbivores with pellets made from desiccated cow brains, spinal columns, bones, etc. (all the bits they couldn’t sell for human consumption) Cows eat grass. Everyone knows that. Very young children know that. Who’s idea was it to feed living cows with dead cows? Who comes up with these ideas? In May 1988 ruminant MBM was banned. But, it wasn’t until 1996 that mammalian MBM was banned in all animal feed. During the 1990’s, 150 people died from the disease labeled vCJD, (variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease) the human form of BSE. Scientists established that the cause of this disease was linked with ingesting contaminated beef. In the US today, blood banks turn away donors who spent 3 months or more living in the UK anytime between 1980 and 1996.

Halley’s Comet came close to Earth. It was the time of Margaret Thatcher, Ronald Regan and Mikhail Gorbachev. Ironically, the Russian leader seemed to be the most trustworthy. Thatcher had destroyed many working class communities in Yorkshire during ‘84 and ‘85, in a vicious dispute, as she ordered the closure of coal mines. She was hated by most of the adults in my part of the world. She put profit before people. Miners who were peacefully protesting on picket lines were beaten by the police.

Popular cinema in the year 1986 included films such as: Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Stand by Me, Crocodile Dundee, The Color of Money, Little Shop of Horrors, Platoon, Aliens, Rocky IV and The Karate Kid II. There was also an Eddie Murphy film called ‘The Golden Child’. I can still clearly recall some of the scenes, involving that strange, little Buddha boy.

Madonna was popular at that time. She seemed to be regularly ‘Top of the Pops’. All the girls loved Madonna. There was music for everyone in 1986. Queen were big. ‘It’s a Kind of Magic’ was a hit that year. There were some classic Rock ballads, like Europe’s ‘The Final Countdown’, Bon Jovi’s ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’ and Van Halen’s ‘Why Can’t This Be Love’. There was Spandau Ballet, Pet Shop Boys, Level 42, Simply Red, Status Quo, The Bangles, Robert Palmer, Bananarama, A-ha, UB40 and Diana Ross.

Mac was really into Erasure. They had a big hit called ‘Sometimes’ that year. Nick was into Huey Lewis & The News. ‘Power Of Love’ and ‘Stuck With You’ were hits at that time. Gary loved Queen. When he finally passed his driving test, he would drive around the village very slowly, with the all windows down, playing Queen anthems very loudly. I liked the Housemartins. They were local, from Hull. They seemed real. James Brown had a big hit with ‘Living In America’ that year. I loved the energy in that song. Same with Run-DMC and Aerosmith singing ‘Walk This Way’. The energy was super-high. Farley ‘Jackmaster’ Funk had the best name. He was singing ‘Love Can’t Turn Around’. I can clearly remember the video to Falco’s ‘Rock Me Amadeus’. That was an original. Peter Gabriel’s ‘Sledgehammer’ video was unforgettable. One of the year’s biggest hits was by. Billy Ocean, ‘When The Going Gets Tough (The Tough Get Going)’. For many many years I misunderstood the meaning of those lyrics. I thought he was advising us to run, escape and get going… when the going gets tough. But, I now realise that he was actually advocating for the brave and courageous -tough- people to step-up, raise their game and ‘get going’ in times of trouble, when things get difficult, (when the going gets tough) I thought he was telling me to run away.

I can’t remember that last time I went back to Royslip Chilton. I wouldn’t want to. It would be totally different these days. I haven’t seen Mac, Nick, or Gary in 20 years. I don’t keep in touch with them. I doubt we would have much in common, apart from sharing stories from those teenage years. I prefer to keep good memories as memories. They were good times, but they were a long, long time ago. It actually feels like a different lifetime, like I was a different person back then. Maybe we all were. Everything changes.