I recall coming home from Stanley Park one day and there was a Blue Mini parked outside my house, this in itself was very strange as there were very few cars in the street at any time. When I went in my dad was talking to some old grey haired lady, whose name I do not recollect. She was from the Social Services Department, and had come to find my brother and I, a home to live in, "I've got a home" I said, but my protests seemed to fall on deaf ears. My Dad and my brother, along with me and the Social Worker climbed into her car and drove to Spellow Lane in Walton, and went into some dingy offices, shortly afterwards my dad left, and me and my brother were left sitting in a waiting type room. I recall people coming out and looking at us sympathetically and smiling, "Fuck off" I thought as I scowled back. To say I was confused was an understatement I did not know what was happening, other than this woman was going to find somewhere for us to live, I kept thinking I had somewhere to live "20 Balfour Street what is she on about", after what seemed hours, we were bundled into the Social Workers car and driven to Wylvia Road, very close to Liverpool's Football Ground and introduced to some middle aged fat woman, who explained she was to be our Auntie 'whatever' but if we wished to call her mum we could, how kind! She went on to introduce us to her teenage twin daughters, and showed us to our bedroom, shortly after the Social Worker left, and so did we. We went back to Balfour Street and has we did not have a key my brother broke a window, and we 'went home'.
Whilst there my brother decided to have a bath and took the tin bath off the nail in the yard and put it in front of the fire in the living room, and ordered me to fill the kettle with warm water, and fill the bath whilst he got undressed. As he lay there in the bath I continued to add warm water, but got so engrossed in whatever was on the TV I forgot about the kettle, until it started to whistle, I recall turning the gas off and lifting the kettle and without thinking poured the boiling water all over my brother who was sat in the bath "F U C K I N H E L L" he screamed as he jumped out, his face contorted with rage and his skin peeling off as he looked at me in disbelief, again I was off on my toes, I legged it towards my Nan's in nearby Randolph Street, and after a quick look under the door, I realised she wasn't in, I was truly scared thinking I may have killed my brother, I did not know what to do, so that night I slept alone in Stanley Park, considering my options. When you are only ten your options are quite limited, so the following day I returned to Social Services offices in Burton Chambers, Spellow Lane and turned myself in. It was shortly after this incident that both my brother and me were split up, and thereafter our relationship was never the same. My placement at Wylvia Road, was not to last, but I did return to school on a regular basis and re-established friends within my peer group. One friend in particular John must have took pity upon me, and I remember I went to live with him and his parents for a short while with Social Services blessing at 5 Alroy Road, Anfield. John's Parents Sylvia and John Snr, were nice enough people, but it soon became apparent that they did not want me there, I remember overhearing an argument one night when John Snr said that I was not going with them, I didn't know what he meant at the time, but shortly afterwards they went on holiday to Spain and on their return they went to live in Rainhill. When they went on holiday I went back to Social Services offices whilst they found somewhere else for me to live. I have often wondered why at this time, did my mum not come and take me, but she has always maintained that Social Services wouldn't allow her citing the fact that she had abandoned me, I find this a lame excuse, as they were willing to place me with complete strangers, but again I will never know the truth. So yet another foster home was to beckon, and Social Services in their infinite wisdom only placed me in Blessington Road with a family called the' Fawcett's', it was so difficult having to live with complete strangers, whilst my grandparents and my dad lived only a matter of yards away, but I felt powerless to do anything. One day whilst living at the Fawcett's I was outside watching Kenny Fawcett, the foster parents son, playing football he was older than me and it was very apparent he resented me being there, but he did ask if I wanted to join in, so I joined in, and for a short time, I forget about my predicament as I happily played with Kenny and his mates. When the game was over I was really pleased with myself, and thought that maybe Kenny was warming to me as he asked did I "want a drink of Lemonade", "yes please I replied" so in he went and shortly afterwards returned with the glass of lemonade, I took a sip and nearly choked, when I realised the 'bastard' had 'pissed' in the glass and I was drinking his piss, much to the amusement of him and his mates, I felt so degraded. As young as I was, there was no way I was staying there and having the piss taken out of me, or should I say the piss put into me. Invariably this meant another Foster Home, but Burton Chambers was closed as it was out of hours, and I recall ending up at Rodney Street in the centre of Liverpool with a member of staff from the 'Emergency Duty Team'. I was asked to wait in a waiting room whilst he made the necessary arrangements; eventually he came out and said he, had found a new family for me (patronising bastard) in the Sparrow Hall district of Liverpool, when we arrived there I was gob smacked and flatly refused to live there, it was a multi storey block of flats called Coronation Court.
The Second World War had delayed the progress of new housing developments in Liverpool. Slum clearance and new housing schemes were postponed and much damage was done during the enemy air raids when numerous houses and flats were totally destroyed and thousands of dwellings were damaged. After the war there were severe housing shortages and a lack of land for house building was still a problem for the Housing Committee. Housing for a greater number of people in a small area with reasonable living conditions was needed and one method of providing this was by building upwards, in multi-storey blocks. The first multi-storey block to be built in Liverpool was the ten-storey block, Coronation Court, on the Sparrow Hall Estate, which was a ten-storey block, and now Social services wanted me to live there. I had nothing against these houses, but they were alien to what I was used to, and I certainly was not going to live there. The Social Worker who was called 'George Audus' tried his best to persuade me to stay, but I was a stubborn little feller and flatly refused, I knew that if I went in, the Foster Parents would not let me move and it would be difficult to get out, whilst they done there best to ingratiate themselves with false niceties. Foster care was the cheap option, for caring for children although by no means the best. Thankfully I did not become another sad statistic of the number of children who were abused in the care system during the seventies and eighties (my wife said 'I must have been one ugly little bastard!) yet that could not be said for some who were fostered in private homes. So keen was Liverpool Social Services on cutting costs that they resorted to advertising on television for foster parents, and some who responded were not equipped with the gifts necessary to handle children who had been institutionalised and who were reaching their early teens. The emotional television image of young children, butter not melting in their mouths, attracted well-meaning yet incompetent personal to apply as foster parents. It attracted the less scrupulous also, as some applicants saw fostering as a means of earning a few bob. To foster 5 or 6 children especially if they could share one bedroom could be a good financial arrangement. Unfortunately I always suspected my brother was subjected to physical, and emotional abuse, whilst in the care system, we would periodically meet up and he would make reference to events and tell me "that I had it good compared to him".
After slipping the clutches of George the Social Worker and spending another night in Stanley Park, I eventually returned to Social Services, and this time was placed with a family in Coronation Drive, Crosby, this was way out of my comfort zone, I did not know Crosby at all, and I may have well, been placed in a foreign country, the house seemed massive, it was a three bed roomed detached property in a tree lined avenue, and I felt extremely uncomfortable, lonely and miserable. The only memory I have of this placement was the family having a barbecue in their large garden, whilst all of their friends and relatives visited, to view the street urchin that they had rescued. I sat there whilst complete strangers walked around me like I was some sort of tourist attraction, and they all commended the Foster Carer for her philanthropist ways. Once all her guests had left, the bitch forced me to eat some fish from the barbecue which had been simmering in foil all afternoon, it wasn't proper fish like you got from the chippy, this fish still had eyes and fins, and was staring up at me, and just looking at it scared me, the thought of eating it was cannibalistic. When she realised what a stubborn little urchin I was, she attempted to force grass down my throat which made me retch all over her, (I later realised the grass was Cabbage), I have never eaten cabbage since, although I still eat proper fish as long as it is covered in batter. I realised that my stay here was going to be short lived and got off on my toes once again. Social services must have realised that I was never going to settle in a Foster Home and shortly after my Crosby episode I found myself moving in to a large children's home in the Aigburth area of Liverpool, this again was unknown territory as I was from the North End of the City and 'Parkfield' was firmly in the South Side of the city just around the corner from the now lively area of Lark Lane. I can recall pulling up at Parkfield in the Social Workers car, as the car pulled into the driveway I glanced towards a menacing massive detached house. The building scared the shit out of me; it looked like something out of a horror movie, it was so far removed from the little terraced house I had been so used to. However Parkfield was to evoke the happiest time of my life in the Care System; it was good to be in surroundings with other kids who were in the same predicament as me, and be accepted by them, we were a real little community.
I can't be exact but there must have been about 10 or 15 kids who lived there at that time. Whilst living there I attended St Michaels in the Hamlet Junior School for a short while, my time there was uneventful with only a few lasting memories. One memory I have of Living at Parkfield was a black lad called Dereck, he really was black with massive white eyes, he turned out to be a good friend even though he was older than me, I can recall playing a game of trust with him one day, when he placed a brown paper bag over his head and I had to guide him around the playground / garden of the home, I was to tell Dereck to walk forward a few spaces, stop, turn around run for 6 paces etc, he was so trusting of me that he followed my instructions without fear, so in my infinite wisdom I told him to run forward as fast as he could, Dereck followed my instructions without question, and ran forward falling straight down a slope of about 30 concrete steps which led to the cellar of the home, and broke his leg, in the process, an ambulance was called and he was rushed to the Royal Liverpool infirmary Hospital, where his leg was put in plaster. Dereck remained in plaster for weeks, before he mysteriously disappeared from Parkfield, all I can recall is that he went to watch Everton play at Goodison Park and whilst there he got arrested for pick pocketing and I never saw Dereck again. Life after Dereck was never quite the same. On Saturdays we were allowed to eat our TV in the lounge whilst we watched the Pink Panther cartoon series, I vaguely remember a member of staff would wheel in a trolley full of buffet type foods, which I really enjoyed. One of the staff at that time, was a feller called Peter, he had shocking red hair and wore black framed glasses, I remember having a tantrum one night and threatening that I was going to run away, he led me to the door opened the door and said goodbye to me, this really confused me as I expected him to make a fuss, unwilling to back down I stood at the now opened door and told him "I fuckin will, I'll run away" he just stood there all impassive and guided me out with his outstretched palm, I walked out and kept turning back in the hope that he was following me, but as I turned back the door was closed and I was all alone in a dark scary area, which I did not know at all, I decided to swallow my pride and returned to Parkfield, and guess what I never threatened to run away again.
My final memory of Parkfield was spending my pocket money of 17/6 (about 18p) in Lark Lanes plentiful second hand or junk shops as we called them. I remember buying a copy of Frank Ifield singing 'I'll remember you' for my dad at one of these shops, but when I took it back to Parkfield and played it in the common room, one of the girls called Frances who was about 17, asked could she swap it with me for a copy of Paul Anka singing 'Diana' as I liked Frances I let her have the record, and every time I hear either of these songs I always remember this period of my life, my dad never did get his record. Unbeknown to me at the time my Nana had been doing her utmost to enable me to live with her, she resented the thought of me being in care, but made excuses for my dad, whilst castigating my mum for 'abandoning' me. My Nana had been doing her best to persuade my granddad to allow me to live with them, my granddad was not at all paternal, and as I was the son of my father whom he never did like, there seemed little chance of him relenting, complicating matters was the fact that my brother, who was also in care, was having lots of trouble and had been repeatedly in trouble with the Police, and had recently been put in a remand home, I think my granddad did not want the hassle, a troublesome kid would bring, particularly a kid of my dad's. But my Nana was nothing else but relentless in her quest, and eventually she persuaded my grandad to allow me to live with them. At last I was going home. Although I enjoyed my time in Parkfield, I was happy to be returning to familiar territory and leading a somewhat normal life.
I returned to Randolph Street, which was two streets away from where I had been brought up, so I really was back in familiar territory. Grandad assumed a detached role in my life, but as our relationship unfolded, he started to pay more attention to me and we become real pals, much to the surprise of extended family members, who viewed granddad as a gruff man, who spent his time after work in the pub, expecting his tea on the table when he got home. He was I suppose the stereotypical male of the time, but my presence in the house, showed a side to his character, which had previously been unseen. Later I recall my Nana commenting that her life was complete and she had 'never been so happy'. Family members spoke for years after, about the day My Granddad bought me a couple of Matchbox toy cars from 'Renee's' the local newsagents on Blessington Road. He was never the most generous of people and for him to display this sensitive side of his character was unheard of. Even Renee commented on it. Life was really good at this point, I was settled, I was in a loving and caring environment, attending school and did not want for much. Nana & Granddad would go to the pub each evening, with my Nana telephoning from the pub, prior to them leaving to warn me to get to bed before my granddad returned, I would lie awake in bed on there return, pretending to be asleep, and can recall my granddad nipping in, and on more than one occasion he would give me a peck on the forehead. One particular summer in 1971/72 I was due to leave Junior School and prior too leaving, the school were to hold the annual sports day, my granddad said he would take me training to Stanley Park, and whilst he played bowls in the park, I was to run around the bowling green whilst he timed me. My Nana & Granddad took me to the park and whilst Granddad played bowls, my Nana sat watching me, whilst I ran for all I was worth around the bowling greens doing my best to impress Granddad. My lap times improved and Grandad urged me to go out the following day and win a certificate for him.
Unfortunately neither of my grandparents was able to attend the Sports Day, but I surpassed everyone's expectations when I actually won one of the main events and received not only a certificate but also a Medal. To say I was pleased would be an understatement as there was quite a few lads in that school who were far more athletic than me, but I had won, maybe it was those earlier days when I had, had to get off on my toes, that had prepared me for this. I felt a sense of real achievement and couldn't wait to get home to show my grandparents my gains, on their return home from work. I was surprised to get home and find not only my Nana there, but my Dad, my brother, and Uncle and auntie, & Merseyside Police, this was a welcoming home party I had certainly not expected. But I sensed, something was not quite right, the house was eerily quite, no Jim Reeves playing from the radiogram, as was usually the case, and it appeared my Nana, had been crying. I asked what was up, and told everyone present that I had won, with that my Dad informed me that my Granddad had died in work, following a heart attack, (and to make matters worse my brother had escaped from his remand home, hence the reason the Police where present) I was shaken to the core and couldn't believe it, this was my first experience of death and it wasn't good. I so much wanted to show my grandad my medal, but alas he would never know, I won it for him. I remember storming out of the house and running aimlessly in a sea of tears. I sat for what seemed like hours at the corner of Gorst Street, just watching people going about their business and wondering why the world had not stopped, "don't they know my grandad has just died?" I thought. He was only 56.
It was about this time that I traveled to foreign shores for the first time in my young life, something I wasn't to achieve for a further thirty-five years. I was due to leave Primary School, and as a treat for all 'Junior Leavers' the school had arranged a weeks holiday to Ostend in Belgium. I took home the letter of authorization, and fully expected to be told we could not afford it. Following Granddads death finances where understandably tight, and I suspect my Nana was receiving little or no financial support from either of my parents, Many years later I found out that my dad used to give my Nana a brown envelope containing £3.00 a week maintenance for me, generous guy. Imagine my surprise when my Nana, said that I could go on the holiday with my School friends, I was really chuffed; I later learnt she had used all her savings to enable me to go on this holiday. Another act of generosity I experienced whilst on this holiday, occurred when the party were traveling from London Victoria towards Dover to catch the ferry, Mr. Ratty who was my class teacher called me into the corridor of the train and told me that each of the other Children had in excess of £5 per day pocket money, and as I only had about a tenner to last all week, he had made my pocket money up to the same as my peers, I was truly touched by his generosity and somewhat embarrassed as I did not want 'special attention' or to be looked upon as a 'welfare case', but Mr. Ratty was considerate and discreet, and to this day I have never forgot that kind gesture. The holiday to Ostend, which included a visit to a place called 'Sluis' in Holland, (where I bought my Nana a pair of handmade wooden clogs,) passed with only the one incident, I recall going out one evening on the promenade in Ostend, and hiring a Go-Kart, and off I set whizzing along the Prom being careful not to run anyone over, when all of a sudden I heard a deafening crack above my head, it startled me that much that I instinctively ducked, it transpired I had not been using the designated pathway for the Karts, and a local policeman thought I had stolen the Kart and shot his pistol in the air to get my attention, well he certainly achieved his objective, however when I returned the Kart, there was a distinct smell of 'shite' on the seat. The incident really did scare me, and thereafter I was quite subdued and chose not to get up to any mischief for fear of upsetting the local 'La Police Belge' Despite this it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, and the foreign landscapes and different languages fascinated me.
Package holidays as they are today were certainly not common place in 1972, the advent of the mobile phone, internet, cheap air-fares, affordable cruises, and satellite TV has certainly made the world a much smaller place than it was back in 1972. I returned home to an air of uncertainty, my Nana was clearly grieving for her husband, there seemed to be issues surrounding finance, and talk possibly of having to move house. I suspected at one point that I may have to go back into care. I cannot remember how it happened or exactly when but My Nana and I moved to Plymouth in Devon, and stayed with my Nana's Son and his family I suspect this must have been about 1973. John who was in the Royal Marines, had initially been stationed in Plymouth, and met a local girl whom he later married and settled there. Nana explained that she needed to get out of Liverpool, and was looking at starting a new life In Plymouth for both, her and I. It is funny how times change; I distinctly remember that journey to Plymouth. We got a taxi from our house to Lime Street, with a view to catching the 9.20am train from platform 7, which arrived in Plymouth at 16.45 (six hours and twenty minutes) I remember feeling like I was moving to another country. The journey was a long one, and I couldn't keep still, so I went for walk on the train, and got chatting to the steward in the Buffet Car, I asked him could I help, and he allowed me to make sandwiches and clean dishes, (no Health & Safety Regulations in those days) I helped him for the remainder of the journey (occasionally nipping back to my Nana with a free cup of coffee) and felt so grown up, towards the journeys end the Steward paid me some money and told me, to help myself to whatever I wanted from the buffet, so I took four cans of Guinness for my Nana, she was so embarrassed when I burst into the carriage announcing at the top of my voice, Nana, Nana, I've got you your favourite booze, much to the amusement of her fellow passengers. The remainder of the journey I spent with my head out of the speeding trains window, upon arriving at Plymouth my eye had swollen severely causing great concern, my uncle met us at the station, took me to the local casualty, where it transpired I had grit in my eye, which had caused an infection, I was given eye drops and told to wear a patch over the eye for a couple of weeks, so it turned out I arrived in Plymouth ready to start my new life looking like a 'Fuckin Pirate'
My Nana loved Plymouth and seemed much more at ease when she was there, I often commented upon this to her, and she would just reply it was the 'sea air'. Her intentions where to rent a property in Plymouth and start a new life, I didn't mind, as I liked the look of Plymouth, and I noticed that the people spoke with a weird accent. After a while I was enrolled in the local School 'Prince Rock' and started my new life, I was to become quite a celebrity in School, due mainly to my Liverpool accent, and my distinct eye patch but I easily made lots of friends. Life was good, I felt ok in my new school. I had loads of friends, and was looking forward to the future. Whilst in Plymouth I was befriended by a large family called the 'Carters' (there must have been about six of them) I can recall John, Andy, Isaac, Dougie and Sylvia and of course, their Mum, Mrs. Carter who had brought these kids up all on her own. The Carters lived in Beaumont Road, In the St Jude's area of Plymouth. I went to school with John, but it was John's older brother 'Andy' who I was closest to, we became firm friends, and always looked out for each other, Andy being a local introduced me to all his friends and showed me all the places to go, where not to go and more importantly he introduced me to the opposite sex. Prior to this my only interest in the opposite sex, had been through the 'noddy mags' I used to acquire at the Barbers in Liverpool, I had not, had a girlfriend and to be honest I had not give it any thought, at that time I was more interested in football. But Andy was a bit older than me, and quite Street wise, he often, had a few girlfriends on the go at once. That summer was spent on Plymouth Hoe and, in and around the Barbican. The Traveling fun fair happened to be at the Barbican at this time, and with my charm and Scouse wit, it wasn't long before I had charmed the Gypsies who ran the fair into giving me a job, initially I was responsible for one of the small amusement arcades, giving out change, and walking around like I was hard, with about a million keys dangling from my waist, for all the various machines. I would work at the fair from about 10am until closing time which was about 11.00pm, my staple diet at this time consisted of Westlers Hot Dogs and Westlers Burgers, which were free for employees, and any other goodies i.e. (Candy Floss, Rock etc) that I desired. I cant recall what my wage was, but money was never an issue for me, as I was quite resourceful and often up to a little bit of ducking and diving to earn some cash, I never seemed to go without. My boss at the arcade was a guy called Peter, he was a hard man, and fully respected within the Gypsy community, I got on well with Peter, and would listen in awe, to all his stories, of scrapes he had been in over the years, and was fascinated with the metal plate he had, had inserted in his forehead, following a nasty fight a number of years back. You could actually feel the plate beneath his skin, and people were, very wary of upsetting Peter for fear of being head butted by him, legend had it, that he once killed a rival, with the sheer velocity of his head butt, however I tend to think, it was just a tall story. About two years later Peter was murdered following a street fight he was only 32 years old. Peter was the top man at the fair and as our relationship grew, and he trusted me more and more, I asked him could I work on the dodgems, with my mate Andy, who was also working on the fair, he agreed, and that night I looked forward to being one of the 'cool dudes' that worked the dodgems. Andy had told me that he was making quite a few quid, on the dodgems with a simple scam, which involved, Andy being allocated a certain colour dodgem (there was four of each i.e. red, green, yellow and blue) and he would be responsible for taking the fairs for that colour dodgem, during his shift. In them days you would pay the lad as he hung off the back of your dodgem, unlike today where you purchase your ride tickets in advance, many punters would give Andy a five or ten pound note, and he would give them pound notes in their change, however, what he would do is fold a pound note in half and sandwich it between two other pound notes, so to the punter, when the change was being counted out for them it would appear they were getting £4.00 and change, when in effect they would get £3.00 and change, thus the operator would make a £1.00 each ride, I soon became adept at this scam, and would very easily make in excess of £30.00 per day doing this, on top of my wages, and as the fair was open six days a week, this was to be another financially lucrative period in my young life. However it is often said "what goes around comes around" and within a few weeks of working the dodgems, I was to be unceremoniously relegated to a 'catch the duck stall'. What happened was, one night there was quite a few girls hanging around, and we lads would do our utmost to impress them, one night I recall hanging off the back of one of the dodgems, whilst steering it for a couple of these girls, and noticing another 'fit bit' I attempted to jump from my dodgem, on to her dodgem all in one sleek movement which always impressed the watching girls, like a right 'twat', I totally mistimed my jump, and went arse over tit, getting run over by about four different cars at the same time, the whole place was in uproar, staff and punters alike, where pissing themselves laughing, it was that moment when, as a punter you would look at these lads working the fair, and hope beyond all hope that 'the twat goes flying' well this twat certainly did, I skidded about 20 feet on the metal surface, before being brought to an abrupt stop, by a posse of dodgems. I burnt half of the legs out of my jeans, and burnt my leg badly in the process (friction burns), but nothing could match the bruised ego I suffered. As a result Peter relegated me to the Catch a Duck Stall, which did not have the same draw to the attracting females as the dodgems.
However life at the fair continued, and it was at this time that I started concocting various stories that would enable me to stay out all night, and continue traveling all around Devon & Cornwall with the fair. I would tell my Nan, that I was staying at Andy's House or that we were going camping, and would ring her occasionally to let her know I was okay, this seemed to appease her, and off I went. Many a night was spent sleeping at the fair, with Breton-side bus station doubling up as our washing quarters, we would sleep in the trailers that were designed for the dodgem cars, they were on two levels, so effectively we had an upstairs and a downstairs. A lot of the gypsy lads would take their conquests back to the Dodgem Trailer, and have sex, before innocently returning to their girlfriends or wives in the caravans. I would often saunter back to our trailer, with Andy, following the end of our shift, and see little white arses pumping away, or some girls walking around stark naked, it was a real eye opener, and the dawning of a new awakening for me. Following a summer of adventures with the fair, I was now in Dawlish and it was time to return to school, so it was with a heavy heart that I said farewell to the friends that I had made at the fair and returned to Plymouth along with Andy. School was uneventful, but my social life certainly wasn't, following School I would hang around the local streets of a place called 'Cattedown' in Plymouth and it was here that I met a woman by the name of 'Deirdre Mumford', well I say woman, she was sixteen or seventeen and I was about twelve or thirteen, so in my eyes she was a woman. Andy had told me that she was 'up for it' and suggested I lose my cherry and give her one, this was a foreign language to me, firstly I didn't have any cherries (I don't like them) and why if I did have some would I want to lose them? It soon became clear what Andy was referring to when Deirdre came on to me and led me to a local church doorway, to say I was nervous is an understatement, I was absolutely shitting myself, despite my observations at the fair, I wasn't quite sure if I was ready for 'Delectable Deirdre', however 'Dee' wasn't one to be put off, once her motor was purring, and after removing her knickers, tights and another pair of knickers, she invited me to feel her down below, she was all wet, (I wasn't sure if she had pissed herself) and had a bush of hair which felt all matted, this was not what I had envisaged, I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt, what I thought was a 'little willy' (well it seemed bigger than mine at the time) but quickly found it wasn't a willy, but it was strange, this aligned to me twisting her stiffened nipples, like I was trying to tune a TV set all led to a rather cumbersome attempt, at losing my innocence. Deirdre was moaning now and I thought I was hurting her, with my attempts at trying to tune into 'Radio Luxembourg', whilst plugging her leaking dam. I was so confused, I honestly did not know what to do, so with my jeans around my ankles and my Y-Fronts by my knees, I recalled the older gypsy lads at the fair, and remembered that they would thrust their arse in and out a lot when in the presence of partially dressed women, so I instinctively started to do the same, anyone who was passing by, would have swore I was dancing to the 'Hokey Cokey' in the semi nude in a church doorway, I didn't realise my 'willy' should have been in position, so there I was thrusting my little arse backwards and forwards into mid air' and before I knew it, it was all over, I was stood there, wondering what to do, whilst Deirdre let out a sigh, and started to pull her knickers tights and knickers up. That was it, the end. I still hadn't placed my ship in her port, "oh well" I thought at least, I have gained some bragging rights with Andy. I remember going home that night, and tentatively sneaking in, I felt as though my Nan and Auntie & Uncle all knew what I had been up to, but they sat there as impassively as any other night, and acknowledged me as they usually would, although they must have been suspicious when they heard me running a bath, and wondered why I soaked myself that night for nearly two-hours, I scrubbed myself raw, attempting to get the stench of Deirdre Mumford off me, I later found out that 'Delicious Deirdre' was the local town bike, and had been ridden by most of Devon & Cornwall, who had certainly clotted their cream with her, but as you can see it was an experience I have never forgotton (and my wife would probably add that I have never learnt from either). Despite my indiscretions with 'Delightful Deirdre' I was really settling down to my new life in Plymouth, and felt really happy. I can recall arriving home at 22 Durham Avenue, St Judes. (My aunt & uncles house, where my Nan and I were temporarily staying whilst she sought our own home) following school, and was particularly pleased this evening as I had just secured myself a paper round with the local newsagents (as well as, unlimited opportunities for Free Chocolate, Pop, Comics, Sweets and Cigarettes). On arriving home my Nan looked particularly pleased, when she announced we were going home, to Liverpool, she had secured a rented property in the Walton Area, and we were returning home within a couple of days. I was devastated, I didn't want to return home, I loved Plymouth, and the endless adventures and new experiences it was presenting, but it was non negotiable, I couldn't live with My Auntie & Uncle, they had a young child of their own, and they never offered, so I never asked, but if they had offered, I probably would have stayed in Plymouth, such was my love of the city.