There was a
cul-de-sac on my estate lined with horse chestnut trees where prior to the expiration
of the school summer holidays, hundreds of kids would gather with a collection
of objects useful for hurling.
Wood planks
with rusty nails, house bricks and broken bits of bicycles or go-karts would be
airborne or else crashing to the concrete to the shouts of either annoyance or jubilation,
depending on how many conkers it struck and successfully bought down.
Below the
falling objects children gathered to collect the spoils, the hierarchy governed
by age. Little ones hurried, looping through the legs of bigger kids, hoping to
steal an unwanted conker or two. The older kids were the connoisseurs; they
knew what they were looking for, the tell-tale signs of a potential “hundreder.”
They would crack open the case and inspect the nut, roll it between their
fingers prospectively.
I recall no
adults ever present, if they knew where we were going they only warned us to be
careful; supervision was not required and despite the fact that solid objects
fell from the skies in regular abundance, I never recall any injuries worth
noting.
We took the
bags of collected items to Mum, who would sigh but still stop whatever one of
the zillion jobs she was undertaking without the aid of technological kitchen paraphernalia,
wipe her hands and get a baking tray to bake those conkers and get them real
hard.
We lay on
the floor by the heating oven, peering through its grease stained door, timing
them to perfection while mum slipped her hands into her oven gloves to get them
out. Now the tricky part, waiting for them to cool before we could raid Dad’s
shed for a screwdriver.
We put the
warm conkers on the patio slabs and sat on the floor, holding them steady with
one hand and forcing the screwdriver through their centres in hope they wouldn’t
crack. Every successful bore would be threaded with string and we’d tie a knot
in the end. The job was complete, now for the challenge.
There was a
whole technique to perfect with conkers and when the important elements came
into play you had yourself a winner. Stance was fundamental; the ability to flick
it from your fingers paramount, and aim, well aim was the last crucial component
for a successful smash. If aim was in any way faltered you could blame your opponent
for swinging his string slightly to avoid collision. You then had the right to
touch his conker and align and steady it, otherwise you never touched another
lad’s conkers. Unless you worked for BBC children’s shows it would seem.
It was at a
time when the dustman would go through your back gate, pick up a heavy metal
dustbin and fling it over his shoulder. He would march it out to the street and
dispose the contents into the truck. Then he would walk your bin back to the
garden, tip his cap and merrily greet your parents with a “morning’,” and shut
the gate on his way out.
Things were
the way they had been for generations in the early 1980s, little changed. The electronic
milk-float replaced a horse and cart, lava lamps became old-fashioned, and that
was about it. Then times moved on, Mum told Dad the house needed decorating. Chic
contemporary design would replace the shockingly poor taste of the 1970s. Floral
wallpaper was stripped and replaced with painted walls, music systems were
replaced with hi-fi and we all had futuristic silver discs that we were told
would last forever to substitute for jumping vinyl.
We had house
meetings many-fold, in which we would try to convince Dad he needed to part
with more money to rent technological gadgets and accessories for without them,
we were doomed to live a life of 1970s humdrum. We begged for a video recorder
and despite my father’s confusion as to why on earth we would need to hire a
film or record a TV show if we were out, he got one. We supplicated him for a
home computer, backing our pitch up with the concept he could control all his
finances on it, organise his day. It worked and that Christmas we bagged a black
rubber-keyed processor with a whopping forty-eight kilobytes of memory. We
relished in the new terminology, RAM, ROM and whatever the hell POKE was.
And when Dad
realised he had not the time or motivation to self-teach programing in order
for this gadget to take over the organisation of his entire life, the machine
was left to us kids to trade and swap games, none of which would load. For my
mum it was infuriation; she wanted her television set back to watch Crossroads.
So we went where only the elite 1980s families went, to the pinnacle of modern
living; Dad bought a second television set and took the old one upstairs for us
to use with the Spectrum computer.
And with
these technological advances the country watched as the whole ethos changed. The
country mutated everything that was sacred, in fear it was too risky and
gradually we come to where we are today. My Dad took us on holiday in Cornwall
in the 1970s, hired an estate car with my uncle and aunt. My Dad and Uncle sat
in the front seats, which had seatbelts but no one used them. On the backseats
sat my mum and aunt, without belts but with my baby cousin on my auntie’s lap.
My brother and I were delighted to be in the boot, perched on seats loosely constructed
out of suitcases, boxes and footballs.
So, where we
are today, can you imagine taking the journey from Essex to Cornwall today in
this fashion, would you conceive the possibility that you might consider
loading your family in a car for such a journey? Would you allow your child to
wander around lone on a street where it rained rusty-nailed planks of wood,
bricks and metal parts of go-karts? Would you carry out metal dustbins when the
house-owner has a perfectly good wheelie bin to save your back? You know, if
you don’t take it out and align it in exactly the right spot, ensure the lid is
not raised a fraction of a millimetre, it will not be collected. Not because
the bin-men are obnoxious arseholes but because they have been conditioned by
the terms of their contracts. If they break this in order to go the extra mile
then on their head be it. They will not be covered if an accident happened.
This is the
way of the world and some old folk need to keep up with the changes. I saw a pink
stool sat outside an elderly person’s home, awaiting bin collection with a note
saying “Take to tip.” I thought “Yeah right, like that’s going to happen, this isn’t
1977!” These older generation, still living in a time where, unbeknown how to
our younger generation, people manged to survive against the odds and total
lack of health and safety regulations. They hold on to the ideal that Britain
is great and the only thing ruining it is the influx of people who are ignorant
of our culture, our humble ways. But, unfortunately it is not those to blame;
it’s us.
Our lives
have been made so very comfortable, we need not worry as it is done for us. Providing
we are wearing a high-viz jacket should any traffic knock us down they are
liable, we will get paid out and hey, maybe not have to work for a living any longer.
Britain has become lazy, lethargic and idle. We may never be able to work our
way back from the mistakes of this week, unlike I believe our forefathers could
possibly have…. unless we change our ways back to an age they lived, become
uncomfortable again and with the rise in prices we will see over the coming years
perhaps this will happen…maybe that is what the governing bodies want from us,
but it is no walk in the park and walking in the park is about all we are good
for these days.
Can we
reduce our existence this low, now we are accustomed to all the 21st
century has to offer? Can we find a solution to our problems by going back to a
time when things were simpler? No, it’s all an illusion, a nostalgic flitter
from your youth. You may have been having the time of your life but in reality,
Britain was shit back then too.
We had
recession, we had war, we had poverty and anger and hate, we had far right wing
factions feeding on our rage, we had mass unemployment, we had people abusing
their power, oppressing the poor, abusing children. We had serial killers,
bogeymen. We had sickening underworlds of debauchery on every level. It was
just your youth shadowing these things and it is this illusion which tells us
we put the Great in Great Britain but we didn’t, we never did.
Get off your
ego-trip and realise what the older generation and all those who followed them
into the propaganda of the Leave campaign did this week, they did because they
believe in a false concept, a fantasy that we still live, not in the Great
Britain of yore, but a Great Britain from their adolescent minds which always
fogs the hard bits and highlights the fonder memories. Watch out, that wooden plank is coming down
from the horse chestnut tree and it about to smash us in the face and no
high-viz vest is going to protect us. Will we ever get back out of this
cul-de-sac?
