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So Mr. Trump has lost the US election and is refusing to go quietly, kicking and screaming, throwing his dummy out of the pram, spitting and cursing. Just Get Out Donald, now there's a good laddie. The term 'Get Out! holds significant memories for me'. But what does it mean to me? In what context am I using it? The big Brexit debate? No, certainly not that. Is it some kind of racist fuelled mantra aimed at illegal immigrants and asylum seekers. Absolutely not! Perhaps it's memories of me and my mate being kicked out of the scout hut after only half an hour on our first day for pissing about. Or the time I was asked to leave the music class for the same reason. Apparently me 'jamming' on the triangle was not what the percussion group were looking for. A pity that, I thought I'd been blessed with the musical gift when, after three solid weeks, I'd perfected 'Three Blind Mice' on my recorder. Well the first line anyway. Over time my rock star aspirations dwindled away to nothing and I became a roofer. But no, for me, the term 'Get Out!' resonates with none of the above.
As a nipper living at Glensdale Road in East End Park, Leeds 9, I wasn't allowed out of the garden. I was informed that it was because I was only four. I remember thinking, 'Bastard! just my luck!'
It was an exciting time to be a kid in East End Park during the late 60s and early 70s. Slum clearances were abound with thousands of derelict back-to-backs right on our doorstep to explore and smash up. I would sit on the gate at the top of our garden wishing my life away and yearning for my fifth birthday so I could join in with the older ones in their fantastic explorative adventures. I wanted a piece of the action but had to make do with watching the cat have fun with the huge infestation of mice and rats which had been displaced by the mass demolition programme.
The summer of '69 was a watershed for me. I was released into the big wild world. And what an introduction. At first I would tag along with the older ones but eventually I was free to plot with my newfound school pals to meet up after school and to do whatever we wanted. And we were little bastards, of that there was no doubt. We'd explore the crumbling and derelict houses and rummage through piles of abandoned belongings and junk, we'd scour cellars and attics and outbuildings. We'd make dens and smash windows and set fires alight and rip up floorboards and pipework. We'd drag full doors back to our gardens to make dens out of and knock up bogeys out of any wood we could lay our hands on, old pram wheels, nails and bits of string. We'd play on the 'ollers', which was the name we gave up to any piece of waste ground, and return home 'black bright' from head to foot. Mam would then demand that I get straight into the bath but I used to con her and say that I had when in fact I hadn't. I'd often go to bed with my legs looking like I hadn't taken my socks off such was the layer of muck that would transcend through the cheap 'pumps' which would double up for use at school and then for 'playing out' in afterwards. Life was one big adventure in those days. We used to play on Mam being an only parent but woe betide us kids getting caught for anything or being cheeky. What would now be classed as child abuse in those days was a run of the mill sharp slap, and I deserved every last one I received. As us four kids got older it became harder and harder for Mam to control us and we played on it. However, once we reached a certain age she held the sway of power in the household which is where the phrase, 'Get Out!' rings a bell for me. Perhaps on a cold and damp morning, or a day when my mates were otherwise engaged, or a day when I just wanted to while the morning away reading up on my beloved Leeds United, the conversation at Glensdale Road might possibly have run like this:
MAM: 'Right, come on, get out and play.'
ME: 'Eh?'
MAM: 'You heard, get out and play.'
ME: 'Aw Mam. Do I 'ave to, it's cold.'
MAM: 'I SAID Get OUT!'
ME: 'MAAAM!'
MAM: 'GET OUT! I wanna bit a peace, now go on, OUT!'
ME: 'I don't want—'
MAM: 'If ya don't get out I'll put me bleedin' boot right up yer arse ... NOW GET OUT!' At this stage Mam's eyes would be bulging and her fists would be clenched. Being of a quite delicate frame (I was as thin as a rake and just as pale. My name within the family was 'Tinribs' and if the light was just right you could actually see straight through me. No need for X-rays!) the thought of Mam's 'boot' being shoved up my arse wasn't particularly appealing and so I'd reluctantly put on my anorak and go out to 'play'. Our house was like the opposite to a prison. Even though we lived there we couldn't get IN the twatting place! In the long run though it didn't do us any harm. You got used to entertaining yourself. If ever I was on my own I used to invent games or create tournaments in my head between Leeds United, Liverpool and Manchester United. Whether it was kicking a ball against the wall, marbles or darts or whatever it was there would only be one winner and it was never Liverpool or Man Utd. I'd make sure of that.
Most of the kids in East End Park were poor, some more so than others. We had little in terms of material wealth but we were brought up to respect our elders and display impeccable manners. But were we wild, feral and unruly? Yes we were. Were we little bastards? Yes we were. By today's standards would we have been tagged as rough and ready? Probably. But that was the norm in East End Park, we were all alike and our families loved us (though they never said so!) and we were thought of, in the neighbourhood, as good kids. Thought of as good kids? Jesus! If only they knew.
The times me and my pals would sprint along the railway bridge parapet wall laughing our heads off with a sixty foot drop staring us in the face if we put a foot wrong.
The time me and a pal were throwing stones at a blokes window when he ran out of the back door and chose to chase me rather than my mate. I was a nippy little twat in those days but this big fecker must have been related to Usain Bolt as he hurdled his fence and chased me around the streets and right down our path. He got me by the collar and knocked on the door. Unfortunately for me Mam was out and my Nana was watching the house. Nana answered the door. Nana was built like Frank Bruno. Nana delivered the customary right hook around the head. (To me, not the bloke, but she'd have held her own against him had it come to it). Nana dragged me inside. Nana reassured the bloke that it wouldn't happen again. Nana was right. It didn't.
The times we used to launch half maccas (a half brick) at the passing trains from the embankment behind the stone wall on East Park Road and our two fingered salutes when we hit a window and the occupants had the audacity to look up and shake their fists at us.
The time when we were firing an air rifle at a blokes windows from a derelict building next to the Shepherd Pub. Some miserable bugger had called the cops and they turned up en masse, a fleet of Pandas screeching up in front of the property like something out of The Sweeny. We immediately scarpered out of the back door but because I was the youngest I was handed the rifle. The sight of six of us frantically barging our way out of the back door with me brandishing a rifle over my head will never leave me. We escaped, and salted ourselves into the estate, we were too cute for the cops. I'd been used by the older ones, but I'd been up to the task and hadn't wilted which had earned me a bit street cred amongst the bigger, older lads.
The times we'd ambush Paddy the night watchman who was guarding the new estate during construction. A group of six or eight of us would hide behind a mound of earth and lie in wait, each with a stockpile of mudbombs at the ready. Once within range we'd all jump up and pelt the poor fella for all we were worth. He didn't stand a chance but to us it was the most exciting thing ever, we'd run off laughing our little heads off. God bless us. God forgive us. If you end up reading this God please note that I've done good things as I got older and I once walked an old woman home in the snow and carried her shopping for her. She was very thankful at the time. Then I once gave a bloke who was limping a ten bob bit for his bus fare home and he thanked me. Please take these into consideration when weighing up where you're gonna put me when it's my time!!
Then there was the time with our beloved Queen, (yes, the proper Queen who lives in London). That could have changed my life (and hers) forever. I go cold at the very thought but I'll leave that one for later, or until I have the courage to come clean about it. If I ever do.
All this and not a sniff of any drugs, glue or any other substance to fuel our unruliness. It was all our own doing, straight from the heart, from within. Enterprising little bastards, we had to make our own fun.
Today's little cherubs, lounging in their centrally heated, carpeted bedrooms playing on £400 game consuls on wide-screen tellys and communicating with the world around them via social media and the internet. Would I change my wild, rough and rugged childhood for the comfortable lifestyle of a contemporary youngster? Absolutely not.
'Get OUT or I'll put me bleedin' boot right up yer arse!' The good old days.
Due to unforeseen circumstances the sequel to Lonely Ballerina, The Girl, will now be a spring release (2021). We will be releasing a trailer hopefully within the next couple of months.
... Linda had been born in East Moor Park and raised in Seacroft. This unique combination of DNA gave the woman a granite determination, the heart of a bare-knuckle prize-fighter and an inner core of steel. Game on ... .
Stay safe guys.
David
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