The Twelve Posts of Christmas - Day Eleven: New Year's Day - A Day Of Superstition.

 

It was New Year’s Day, sometime back in the late 1960s, and my school football shirt was dirty and needed cleaning. I had a big game coming up, and I only had one decent football shirt. In my schoolboy mind, it was a matter of urgency.

I asked my mother if she could put it in the washing, as I needed it as soon as possible. I expected that it would soon be washed and ready again.

“No, not today,” she replied.

“Why?” I asked, surprised.

It seemed to me to be a reasonable question, as she always seemed to be doing some washing. There was a never-ending supply of laundry that needed to be washed. Why not today, I wondered? 

“I’ll tell you why,” she replied. “It’s New Year’s Day, and you don’t do any laundry today, as it will bring bad luck.”

“What bad luck?” I wanted to know.

“If I do it today, it will bring bad luck. That’s what they say. Have you not heard of washing a loved one away? You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

Now, I didn't want that to happen, but surely washing my football shirt was not going to cause a death in the family?

The superstition that doing the laundry on New Year’s Day could result in the death of a family member is one that is widely held. Many seem to believe it, or at least observe it, and for some it is extended to not doing any house cleaning on New Year’s Day.

Did You Know… Kids In the 1970s Could Buy X-Ray Specs from the Back of a Comic?

 

“See-through clothes!” promised the ads in Whizzer and Chips, The Beano, and just about every comic a kid could get their hands on. Entirely untrue, of course.

 

If you grew up in the 1960s or 70s, you’ll remember that the back pages of children’s comics were filled with adverts for itching powder, magic tricks, prank gum, and rubber masks. But there was one that stood out, aimed firmly at childhood gullibility: X-Ray Specs.

To younger generations today, with smartphones and high-resolution everything, the idea may seem laughable. But in the pre-digital age, a time when TV shut down at night, and “special effects” meant a blue screen on Tomorrow’s World — the promise of being able to see through solid objects was nothing short of a miracle.

That is what the X-Ray specs promised us. It would give us X-ray vision.

The adverts didn’t even try to be subtle about it. The drawing usually featured a boy staring wide-eyed at a young woman, the dotted outline of her body revealed as if by magic. Very 1970s, inappropriate, and unrealistic, but we all wanted a pair.

Just imagine showing up at school being able to look through walls, desks, and…clothes. 

Who would dare turn up with X-Ray specs? Well, my mate Tony did. He had seen the ad in the back of Whizzer and Chips, or it might have been The Dandy. He saved up and sent off for a pair. I think they cost him three shillings, which was about fifteen new pence post decimilisation, including postage.

The specs themselves were made of cardboard, with red-and-white spiral lenses. Inside were thin bits of plastic film that created a double-image effect. When you looked at your hand, you’d see a faint shadow offset from the real thing. That shadow was supposed to represent the X-ray. In reality, it just looked like everything was slightly out of focus.

Even back then, paying three shillings for a flimsy pair of glasses that looked like they would last five minutes seemed a rip-off.

Did You Know… Until 1987, You Needed a Licence to Own a Dog in The UK?

 

 

So yes, did you know that until 1987, you needed a licence to own a dog — and it cost 7 shillings? Another small detail from a time when the family dog trotted happily beside you, blissfully unaware it was the subject of official government documentation.

 

There are certain quirks of everyday British life that quietly disappear and later resurface in memory with a mix of amusement and mild disbelief. 

One of these is the dog licence. 

There was a time when, if you had a dog, you would need that small piece of paper to prove you were the owner. It was legally required to have one until 1987, and for decades, they cost the princely sum of 7 shillings (35 new pence). 

'Princely' was the right word, though, as my first family dog went by the name of Prince. Despite his royal name, he was a mongrel dog, a happy one, but also an illegal one. I don’t remember us ever having a licence for him, but there again, I was quite young at the time. Such legal matters were not on my mind, and I don’t think it bothered Prince either, as he just went about his business of being a dog. 

In the 1960s or 70s, you might occasionally hear someone say, “Have you got a licence for that dog?” It wasn’t said as a joke but as an entirely sensible question. Although I think the police probably had better and more important things to do with their time.

Like today, back then, dogs were everywhere. We British do like our pet dogs. They become part of the family and like to be treated as such. They don’t ask for much, just to be fed, taken for lots of walks, and shown a little love. In return, they give loyalty. 

When I was very young, my mother would take Prince with us on the morning walk to school. Then, mid-afternoon when I was picked up, after a hard day of ignoring the teachers, there he would be, waiting at the school gate, ready for his next walk. Like all dogs, Prince liked his walks, whether it was to the school, local shop or pub. The pub was where he would snooze under the table, waiting for food scraps to come his way. After a long walk, he was hungry. 

Wherever we took him, I don’t think anyone ever asked us if we had a dog licence. He was never barred from anywhere.

But for the law-abiding, owning a dog meant a trip to the post office to do your duty and buy the licence. It was a simple enough process — you filled in a form, handed over your 7 shillings, and left with your official piece of bureaucracy. 

The dog would not have had to pass any test, no inspection, no check of the owner's ability to control a dog that had ideas above its station. You were not asked any questions about its background or where it came from.

It was, in truth, an exercise in mild government administration. One that had been around for a long time, and no one seemed to question. It was taken seriously enough to make the responsible dog owner feel properly legitimate.

A little like having a radio licence, and a TV licence, and a fishing licence, and…

Did You Know… Flared Trousers Were Once So Wide They Got Caught in Your Bike Chain?

 

So yes, did you know that flared trousers were once so wide they regularly got caught in people’s bike chains? It’s one of those silly things that captures the spirit of 1970s Britain — a time when trousers danced in the wind, and every young cyclist pedalled with a hint of danger.

 

Fashion trends come and go, and then there are some that arrive and take over the entire country. They leave future generations wondering if everyone had collectively lost their minds.

What were we thinking?

Back in the 1960s and 1970s, there was the great flared trousers explosion. If you lived through that era, you’ll remember trousers that weren’t just flared; they were enormous. Trousers so wide at the ankles that simply riding a bicycle became a public safety hazard.

Flares, or, if you were American, bell-bottoms, started off as quite modest things. A gentle widening at the trouser hem, influenced by naval uniforms of the past.

The fashion actually went back a couple of hundred years in history, but then 1960s pop culture caught on. The hippie movement adopted them. Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles, and Cher often wore them. They were not the only ones, as flares became not just a fashion statement but a symbol of self-expression and rebellion.

Like many innocent ideas, they escalated. By the mid-1970s, it seemed the national objective was to create trousers so wide at the ankles that they could double as a tent. As teenagers, we strutted down every street and road in trousers that resisted the slightest breeze. On really windy days, you could get blown away. If the weather forecast was for gale-force winds, it was better to stay indoors.

The width varied from person to person, but there was a competition for the widest.

“Mine are 22-inch bottoms,” someone would boast.

“Oh yeah?” Another would say, “Mine are 26.”

Before long, hems had reached levels that you could make a pair of curtains out of them. Some flares were so big they would cover your shoes, creating a strange gliding illusion, as if you were floating along.

But we wanted them — everyone wore flares — even our parents wore them in the seventies.

Did You Know… Central Heating Wasn't Common in British Homes Until the Late 1970s?

 

So yes, did you know that for most UK households, central heating didn’t become the norm until the late 1970s? Many of us grew up in cold bedrooms and homes where keeping warm in winter was a yearly challenge.

This morning was cold. I looked out of the window and noticed that every roof was covered in ice. Cars and the pavements were iced over as well. And, officially, winter hasn’t begun yet.

At least today, we have central heating to keep out the cold.

If you grew up in a British home before the late 1970s, you’ll know that heating the house — the whole house — was being optimistic. Heating a room, usually a single room, was a more accurate description of family life.

The idea that every room could be warmed at the turn of a thermostat belonged firmly to the future. If you were well-off, or posh, maybe you could afford it, but there was no one like that in my neighbourhood. Futuristic TV adverts and the pages of the Ideal Home magazine promised a better future, but for most of us, central heating was an exotic luxury, like a colour TV or crisps in flavours other than ready salted.

The typical UK home of the 60s and 70s was built around the living room fire. It was king. King Coal, in fact. That single fire was expected to heat the entire family and, if you were lucky, most of the downstairs. Bedrooms? Bathrooms (if you had one)? The landing? Those were places you dashed through at speed, wrapped in a dressing gown, determined to complete your journey before frostbite set in.

Condensation wasn’t a minor annoyance — it ran down single-glazed windows like a miniature waterfall, creating small black mould that everyone pretended not to notice. This was long before the days of double glazing, and insulation in houses was, well, what was insulation? In winter, ice on the inside of windows wasn’t unusual. Your bedroom felt less like a domestic space and more like a poorly insulated Arctic outpost.

An icebox.

The Boy, the Bonfire, and the Man Called Guy – Remembering Bonfire Night

It begins in October, with the sound of a loud bang in the early evening, followed by an occasional whoosh. It tells me Bonfire Night is almost upon us. Come November, the air will smell faintly of smoke and fireworks—it was the same when I was a boy. 

A memory stirs.

I’m back in a 1960s backstreet, clutching a homemade “Guy” and hoping for a penny or two. This is a look back at Bonfire Night, the real story of Guy Fawkes, and the fading sparks of a very British tradition.

Somewhere in Middle England, late 1960s

A small boy stands outside a corner shop with a homemade effigy, whom we call “Guy”. A bundle of old clothes stuffed with newspaper, a hat perched at a slight angle, and a paper face meant to resemble one of the most famous villains in British history: Guy Fawkes.

“Penny for the Guy?” the boy calls, hopefully.

A man passes, uninterested. The boy tries again. “Penny for the Guy, please, sir?”

A young woman looks over, smiles, and rummages through her basket. She pulls out a purse and produces a big copper penny, and then another — pre-decimal coins that felt like real money.

“Be careful with those fireworks,” she says kindly, handing them over.

He grins, pockets the coins, and can already hear the whoosh and bang of rockets in his imagination.

I was that boy, out on dark nights, asking strangers for a few pennies so I could buy fireworks to celebrate a tradition that, at the time, I had little understanding of. Except we were told that Guy Fawkes was a bad man.

The Spark Behind the Celebration

For those unfamiliar with the roots of Bonfire Night, it all goes back to 1605, when a group of English Catholics plotted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. It was called the Gunpowder Plot, and its aim was simple but spectacular—to assassinate King James I and wipe out much of the Protestant ruling class in one fiery blast.

The ringleader was a man named Robert Catesby. He believed that Catholics were persecuted under Protestant rule, and, in fairness, they were. Catesby’s “solution”, however, was not one that would have gone down well in any century.

Enter Guy (or Guido) Fawkes, a soldier and explosives expert who had been fighting for Catholic Spain. He was recruited to handle the dangerous bit, guarding the barrels of gunpowder and, when the time came, lighting the fuse.

As plots go, it was elaborate, daring, and destined to fail. The conspirators were betrayed before they could strike. Fawkes was caught red-handed in the cellars beneath Parliament with enough explosives to change the course of history.

Son of My Father - We All Did Dumb Things At School (an extract)

Just one of the dumb things that I did at school, when I was a lad. From Son of My Father.

I remember the headmaster because of the one time that I got into trouble at school. It was the only time that I owned up and got into trouble, and he got involved. For the most part I was not a troublemaker, I kept my head down. However, I admit there were moments of stupidity when I did something unbelievable that got me into trouble. This was one of those moments, but at least I owned up to what I had done.

I was playing football in the front school yard, and I recall that no one else was around. I kicked the ball onto the flat roof of a small building. For a moment the ball was heading towards the edge, but then it stopped and got stuck in the guttering. The building was a toilet block which had blacked out windows around the top of it. It was my ball, and I wondered how I was going to get it back.

How Son of My Father Found Its Name - The Story Behind a Book Title, and a Half-Forgotten Song

In 2022, I wrote a book called Son of My Father.

I remember the moment the title came to me. I was pacing around my home, thinking — searching for a phrase that might hold the whole story together. Titles can be elusive things, they are jotted down, forgotten, some look great, then they don’t. I had a handful of ideas, each discarded for one reason or another. 

None seemed to bring the chapters together in the way I wanted.

At one stage, I had an idea that I felt could really work — to open each chapter with a subheading drawn from a song of the time. A piece of music that had shaped not only my personal experiences, but also the atmosphere of the era I was writing about. I imagined each song acting as a lyrical thread connecting memory, mood, and meaning to the story.

Then reality intervened. Copyright.

Yes, “fair use” might have allowed me to borrow a few lines, but even that felt like a legal grey area. The deeper I looked, the more it became a potential minefield of permissions and costs. Reluctantly, I let the idea go.

Still, once music had entered the conversation, I couldn’t get it out of my head. Songs have a way of unlocking memory, and as I sifted through those from my past, one stood out: Son of My Father, a 1972 hit by Chicory Tip.

I can’t say the band were favourites of mine, nor that the song had any special place in my life at the time. I remember it being played on the radio and Top of the Pops, but I was more into music by T Rex, Slade, Sweet and ELO. Years later, the song — and something in its story — resonated. It felt as though it was an ideal title for the book.

Here’s the song:

I later discovered that the title had been used before — in books, in other contexts — but that didn’t matter. For me, it fit.

Because although my book isn’t solely about my relationship with my dad, he is the presence that runs through it. The man, the mystery. As he left my life almost fifty years ago now, the book is most of what I know about him.

Writing Son of My Father was, in part, an act of discovery — not just about the past, but about what remains when memory fades and imagination takes its place. 

Read more reflections like this here.

 

Image by Tibor Janosi Mozes from Pixabay

Son of My Father - Who Was My Dad? The Man I Never Really Knew

When I began writing Son of My Father, I realised how much of my dad’s story I never really knew. So much of who he was existed quietly in the background — unspoken, unseen. What I do remember, though, was his creative side.

From my memoir, Son of My Father

I know nothing about my dad’s childhood, his schooling, or whether he was academically bright or not. I don’t even know the name of the school that he went to. I’m not sure that I ever did. He probably left school with few if any qualifications. Questions like this were never the subject of conversation between us.

Son of My Father - The Funeral Service (an extract)

An extract from my memoir, Son of My Father.      

A very different time.

My Brother wrote the service for mam's funeral. He wrote the following.

“... when she was a young lady, it was the simple things like, helping her mam in the house, learning how to cook, wash and most importantly sew. Equally another happy time for her was her schooling, she was clever and bright and always managed to be in the top stream. It has been said that in other times she may have gone on to be a teacher.”

 It continues.

“From school she went into the factories (Freeman, Hardy and Willis) and later after becoming a mum turned to homeworking. The house always had Sewing Machines in it, Overlocks, Scissors, piles of leather, trim and fabric and things in the process of being put together. She was naturally creative and could turn any idea plucked from your imagination into a fully realised costume in hours.

She was soon promoted to sample machinist because basically she was the best in the trade.”

 

Her schooling was probably typical of that time for someone from her social background. Until her funeral, I was not aware of what she had achieved at school. She would have left school at around fifteen back then.

Five More Signs of an English Baby Boomer - Things Can Only Get Better

 

1)  A cost of living crisis would happen every few years. 

Money was tight, inflation was often high, and austerity was the norm for many. People were told, “You have never had it so good.” Depends on how you define ‘good’. If it’s a little better than bad, then I suppose it was good.

2)  You watched television showing a man landing on the moon. 

I do remember seeing someone walking on the moon. Years later, pop group The Police sang about walking on the moon. And conspiracy theorists told us that the moon landing was recorded in a studio on earth. 

Next they will be saying that the Clangers aren’t real.

Five Signs of an English Baby Boomer - Nostalgia is not what it used to be.

 

1) We would often have sugar sandwiches for tea, usually because we had run out of jam — or money to buy jam. White bread, margarine, and sugar. 

It kept the dentist in business.

2) You had an aunt who would cut your hair. 

My aunt Carol cut my hair. 

“What style? Who do you want to look like?” She would ask. ‘David Bowie or David Essex?’ was my reply. They seemed to do well attracting girls; perhaps it would work for me? It didn’t. Well, I don’t think it did.

My First Television. The Big Box in the Corner

The big box in the corner.

That’s what our first television was called.

It's the early 1960s, and I have a memory of a rather big box that stood in the corner of our rented home.

It had a very small screen.

In fact, the screen was so small that at times a pair of binoculars would have been useful. The room was small, but it seemed to be so far away.

But there was an answer to that — we just moved the sofa and chairs closer to the television.

It was mostly a box, but it had to be.

One day the television stopped working. When that happened, the main way of getting it to work again seemed to be to hit the top of the box. Dad tried that, but it did nothing to solve the issue. The picture remained blank.

He then called in the local repairman, who in due course arrived with his handyman bag of tools.

His first job was to take the back off the big box with a screwdriver. It only took a few minutes for him to decide that one of the valves needed to be replaced. While he was doing that, I had a quick look at what was in the back. Considering the actual screen was so small, I was surprised to see all the valves, transistors and a massive tube.

It surprised me that putting all that stuff together only produced such a small picture.

Looking into the back did show me one thing, though. I had been told by my granddad that all the people who appeared on television actually lived in the back of the television set. Of course, being very young and not knowing anything about how that was possible, I just accepted his expertise on the matter. It never occurred to me that while the box may have been big, it wasn’t that big. They must have been very small people.

The handyman, having changed the valve, then turned the television on. There then followed a wait of several minutes for the set to “warm up” and a picture to appear.

It was like magic.

Money, Money, Money - I'm in the Money. When Money Changes.

  

 

   Money was different when I was a boy.

It really was different. 

It actually changed when decimalisation was introduced in the UK on 15 February 1971. The old currency system of pounds, shillings, and pence was replaced by a decimal system where the pound was divided into 100 new pence.

New coins were introduced from that date, although some had been in circulation two to three years prior.

Here is a list of the old money, coins and notes that were in issue when I was a lad. 

Ha’penny: A coin that was worth 1/2 of a penny. 

There were times when I had a lot of these, often saved in a jam jar.

Penny: A coin that was worth 1 penny. It was also called a copper. 

There was a time when I would regularly take beer bottles back to the local off-licence shop and be given a penny for each. The bottle returns were a valuable source of income for a young lad back then. Mind you, I think it is possible that quite a few adults were wondering why I was encouraging them to drink more. 

Also, the name of Miss Moneypenny in the Bond films.

Thrupence: A coin that was worth 3 pence. 

Known as a joey, but I don’t remember ever calling it that. A twelve-sided coin with character. Having some of these was a step up from the humble penny.

Tanner: A coin that was worth 6 pence. 

The coin was small, silver, and shiny. From what I can remember, it was very easy to lose, especially if you had a hole in your pocket. I suppose that the modern-day equivalent would be the five-pence coin.

It was sometimes referred to as an “Elsie”, after a character named Elsie Tanner in the popular television soap, Coronation Street. Well, that’s what it was called in our house.

A Journey Back in Time to a Summer Job That Helped Fund My Holiday.

When I was a young boy, my mother set me a challenge. It was during the long school holiday one year, and she was hoping to keep me busy and out of her way.

The challenge was that if I did a certain amount of housework and errands over the following seven days, I would be rewarded with ten shillings.

Ten shillings was a lot of money back then, in the early 1970s. It was equal to fifty pence today, but it bought you a lot more. 

For a young boy, it was a big deal, and I would either be paid in coins or a “ten bob” banknote.

A Story About Fame and Legacy

When I was a young lad, if ever I got a little too ambitious, my mother would say to me.

“You need to come back down to earth.”

Sometimes, when I was being far too ambitious.

“You need to get off your high horse.”

Meaning — stop acting as if you think you are better than others.

An idiom.

I grew up in a time when idioms were popular.

But I had no idea what an idiom was. I was probably not paying attention to the teacher at school.

I think it was my mother’s way of letting me down gently.

Life was regularly a letdown.

I did wonder about the high horse, though.

I lived in an inner city in middle England, so the only time we ever saw a horse was on television. The racing from Newmarket, Chepstow, or some other place that I would only ever see on the magical television screen.

The television also bought us a popular series for children about a horse called Black Beauty. It was based on an original story by writer Anna Sewell. It was published in 1877, and she was paid a grand total of £40.

£40 is not much for writing a book, when you consider all the time and effort. In part because of ill health, it took her several years to write it.

But it was in 1877, and back then it might have been a lot of money.

I had to find out.

I Asked Chat GPT to Come Up With a New Book Cover (Part One)

As I have been thinking about changing the cover of my book, I asked ChatGPT to come up with something that was more upbeat and colourful than the one I had originally designed. I thought the original might be too dark and unappealing.

And this was its first attempt.

I thought it was colourful and bright, but wondered why the face features were missing. 

So, I asked it to come up with its own cover.

Son of My Father - A Story in Twenty Chapter Headings

The memories of a sixties' child.  Everyone has a story to tell. Here's mine in twenty chapter headings. 

Chapter One — Just a Small Funeral. 

Chapter Two — The Mysterious Cyprus Album. 

Chapter Three —  Mam and Dad.

Chapter Four — Life at Number Thirteen.

Chapter Five — Tina.

Chapter Six — Little School.

Chapter Seven — The Little Old Lady Next Door.

Chapter Eight — The Divorce.

Chapter Nine — Son of My Father.

Chapter Ten — Big School.

Chapter Eleven — Related to a Film Star?

Chapter Twelve — The Family From Hell.

Chapter Thirteen — The Girl With Beautiful Eyes.

Chapter Fourteen — A Face From The Past.

Chapter Fifteen — Holidays In The Sun.

Chapter Sixteen — The End of Big School.

Chapter Seventeen — Making Plans For…

Chapter Eighteen — Exit Door.

Chapter Nineteen — Whatever Happened To…

Chapter Twenty — Frank.

Available on Amazon as an e-book, or if you are a member, it is "free" to read on Kindle Unlimited.

Son of My Father 

When The Going Gets Tough, Don’t Give Up - A Life Lesson

When I was at school, there were two sporting events each year that I dreaded.

The first was the annual school swimming festival. We were expected to take part in the swimming trials to qualify.

I was not very good. I was a recreational swimmer, not a competitive one.

I did my best, but it was never going to be good enough.

I swam, but never made it to the big day.

Then there was the annual cross-country run.

A Journey Down Memory Lane. Wiping Away Errors, the Tipp-Ex Way

                                              

Until recently, I was not aware that Tipp-Ex, the correction fluid, was still available.

I have not used it in years.

There was a time when I was a regular user. It was a necessity.

For me, that was in the days of pen and paper, long before the arrival of the personal computer and laptop. And for some time after they became available, they were expensive to buy, as was a typewriter or word processor.

I tried using a typewriter, but I soon discovered that I was never going to master it.

I was left with a pen and paper.

But before Tippex, writing anything could be problematic, as mistakes stood out.

At school, most of the time, I did not know that I had made a mistake. My English teacher was the grammar checker. She would return my essays with many red marks and notes in the margin.

She would comment that I needed to improve in certain areas.

“Could do better.”

So many boys had the same three words written on their essays.

One day I noticed that a friend of mine had a little white plastic container. He was applying, via a small brush, that was part of the lid top, a white liquid to his essay.

Once dried, you could write over any mistake.

Maybe with this magic liquid I could do better?

Of course, you do have to know that you have made a mistake, and checking words using a dictionary was very time-consuming. More so if the alternative was being outside playing football with my mates.