The Storytellers One by Roger Mansfield (Schofield & Sims Ltd, Huddersfield 1971)

 

Maybe he wasn’t joking, Ernie thought. Bob was clever with hands and brain, the stop-gap of the shop with micrometer and centre-lathe, a toolmaker who could turn off a candlestick or fag-lighter as soon as look at you. ‘Do you mean it about a .303?’

Bob pulled into a lay-by and got out. ‘Keep clear of the headlights,’ he said, ‘but catch this.’ Ernie caught it, pushed forward the safety catch, the magazine resting in the net of his fingers. ‘God Almighty! Anything up the spout?’

‘I’ve a clip in my pocket. Strictly for rabbits’—Bob smiled, taking it back.

‘A waste,’ Ernie said. ‘The twelve-bore would do. Mixer-matosis has killed ’em all off, anyway.’

They drove on. ‘Had it since I left the army,’ Bob told him. ‘The stores was in a chronic state in Germany at the end of the war. Found myself with two, so kept one. I have a pot-shot with it now and again. I enjoy hunting—for a bit of recreation.’

Ernie laughed, wildly and uncontrolled, jerking excited shouts into the air as if trying to throw something out of his mouth, holding his stomach to stop himself doubling up, wearing down the shock of what a free-lance .303 meant. He put his arm around Bob’s shoulder by way of congratulation: ‘You’d better not let many people know about it, or the coppers’ll get on to you.'

‘Don’t worry. If ever they search, it’s a souvenir. I’d get rid of the bolt, and turn another off on the lathe when I needed it.’ ‘Marvellous,’ Ernie said. ‘A .303! Just the thing to have in case of a revolution. I hope I can get my hands on one when the trouble starts.’

Bob was sardonic: ‘You and your revolution! There wain’t be one in our lifetimes, I can tell you that.’ Ernie had talked revolution to him for months, had argued with fiery puritanical force, guiding Bob’s opinion from voting Labour to a head-nodding acceptance of rough and ready Communism. ‘I can’t see why you think there’ll be a revolution though.’

‘I’ve told you though,' Ernie said loudly. 'There’s got to be something. I feel it. We work in a factory, don’t we? Well, we’re the backbone of the country, but you see, Bob, there’s too many people on our backs. And it’s about time they was slung off. The last strike we had a bloke in a pub said to me: ‘Why are you fellows allus on strike?’ And I said to him: ‘What sort o’ work do you do ?’ And he said: ‘I’m a travelling salesman.’ So I said, ready to smash 'im: 'Well, the reason I come out on strike is because 1 want to get bastards like yo’ off my back.’ That shut ’im up. He just crawled back into his sherry.’

(From 'The Other John Peel' by Alan Sillitoe.)

Quick Change by Jay Cronley (Doubleday 1981)

 

Grimm didn’t feel like a clown, but he handed the kid a balloon, anyway.

“Is that a light bulb on your nose?” the kid asked.

“Get lost,” Grimm said.

“That doesn’t sound like clown talk to me.”

“You want the balloon or not?”

“You’re the meanest clown I ever met.”

“Listen, kid. You’re getting on my nerves.”

The suit was hot and the makeup smelled like turpentine, and wearing tennis rackets would have been easier than the floppy shoes, but a plan is a plan.

One thing Grimm hadn’t particularly counted on was the number of greedy children following him along the sidewalk. You can't think of everything. The children couldn’t follow him into the bank, that was for sure.

“Hey mister clown, stand on one finger.”

Grimm took some change out of his front pocket and threw it in the grass in front of the bank; so much for the children, they zeroed in on the money.

He walked into the bank, exactly the way it had been drawn on the practice paper.

You just don’t rob a bank. You try that, without a well-conceived plan, and they'll gun you down—that is, if you aren’t electrocuted first. In the modem bank, there are wires hooked to plants, and cameras behind clocks.

The plan is what separates the pros from the cons.

And whereas the plan might be that you rob the bank of millions of dollars and live happily ever after, there are many sub-plans that determine whether you will have to give the money back, or live happily ever after in jail.

Grimm knew about a guy who lost a button on his pants at a very bad time—when he was stealing some money. This guy reaches down and his mask slips off and the next thing he knows he is banging a tin cup on the bars, asking for more swill.

A plan is equal to the sum of its parts. Somebody stubs his toe at the wrong time, and this triggers an electronic device that drops the bars around you.

For example, you have to start somewhere, like with the mask.

It's obvious a man has to wear a mask so his face won’t be on the evening news. Money is no fun if you have to spend it down in the sewer or somewhere as dark. You don't put a burglar's mask on and walk three blocks to the bank. Somebody might say, “That guy is going to rob the bank.” You don’t put the mask on right outside the bank, either. This attracts attention, and you might be clubbed by the guard. So whereas a mask sounds like a simple proposition, it isn’t. You have to think it out.

It was Grimm’s idea to go as a clown. Clowns don’t rob banks.

“Hi there, mister clown,” the guard said.

“What’s your name?” Grimm asked.

“Hugh,” the guard said. “Hugh Estes.”

“Have a balloon, Hugh.”

“Thanks.”

There was some doubt whether Hugh Estes could draw his gun inside five minutes. And if he could get it out of his holster, he would have to figure some way to get it over his gut. A bank guard’s primary responsibility is to keep rich old women from bumping into the window's.

“Hugh,” Grimm said. “I have terrible news for you.”

He frowned. “I don’t get to keep the balloon?”

“Worse than that. Come over here.”

Hugh Estes got up from his desk. Grimm put his arm around the old fellow and led him toward the door. “How’s your heart, Hugh?”

“Never better. You with Easter Seals?”

“No.”

“United Way?”

“Hugh,” Grimm said. “I’m a criminal. I’m robbing this bank”

Grimm had his left arm tightly around the guard’s neck. “That’s funny,” Hugh Estes said. “You’re one of the best clowns I ever saw.”

“I’m no clown. Clowns don’t talk. Underneath this calm is a guy who’s getting a little nervous. I’ve got dynamite taped all over me, Hugh, so if you don’t want all these people blown to bits, just do what I say.”

Hugh Estes thought. They had taught him about this sort of thing in bank guard’s school. One out of approximately 475 people who say they are loaded with explosives actually detonates himself or herself.

“I’ve got a terminal illness,” Grimm said. “So it doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

That was the one who blows himself up!

Hugh Estes was getting real nervous real fast.

This would look very bad on his resume.

“Lock the door,” Grimm said.

Hugh Estes looked back at his desk, where the alarm button was. “You can’t rob this bank. There’s only one way out. This bank has never been robbed. It’s foolproof.”

“Yeah, but I’m no fool,” Grimm said.

Fire and Brimstone by Colin Bateman (Headline 2013)

He gave me a big smile and continued his work. After a bit, two female Seekers emerged from the bus, pristine now in their gowns and wimples but destined to be covered in coffee and juice and vomit as the night wore into early morning. One of them gave me a wide smile and said, 'I remember you!'

'Jane,' I said, 'how're you doing?'

'Fabulous/ she said. 'Can I get you a coffee . . . Andrew . . . wasn't it?'

'Orange juice,' 1 said, 'and you have a good memory.'

'I do . . . but then there was also something happened with you at Ballyferris . . . wasn't there?'

'Oh, yes,' I said. 'I got thrown out for sedition.'

She laughed and went to get the juice. When she came back with it, she asked how I'd been and if 1 was still in that bad place with my life, and I said no, everything was fine and dandy; I had just spotted the bus on the way home and wanted to call over and say hello and thank the New Seekers for their support, and her, in particular, for helping me.

'Ah, it was nothing. Sure, that's what we're here for.'

'Well,' I said, 'I appreciate it.'

I lifted the orange juice and drained it in one. 'Better be getting home,' I said, and handed her the glass.

'Good night, Andrew,' she said as she took it from me. 'And may God be with you.'

She gave me another smile and turned away.

'And may God be with you, Alison,' I said.

It stopped her in her tracks, but just for a moment. Then she continued on into the bus. 1 followed her progress along the inside to the small kitchen area. She began to wash the glass. She did not look towards me.

I smiled to myself and turned away.

She had been right there with me, right at the start, and I hadn't noticed. But a colleague of Jonathan's in Culchie's Corner had picked up the photo I'd left and remembered her from a rumpus in the bar when she was collecting for the New Seekers and someone pulled her headdress off. I had no idea how she had ended up with the Seekers, if the trauma of the Wellington Street massacre had caused her to turn to them or they had picked her up, broken or shot, from the street and then slowly brainwashed her, or, indeed, if she had simply been converted because she believed in Eve, just like thousands and thousands of others. Ultimately, it didn't matter. My job was done: I'd been paid handsomely, the puzzle was solved and Alison was alive and free to live that life as she saw fit.

Perfect.

As I walked away from the New Seeker bus, my phone began to ring.

'Well,' Sara asked breezily, 'what's happening?'

'Funny you should ask,' I said.

The Castle (1997)

 

The Pressures of Life: Four Television Plays edited by Michael Marland (Longman Imprint Books 1977)

 

The Pressures of Life

Sometimes we feel that we are on top of life - able to follow our interests, succeed in our work, get on well with other people, and everything goes smoothly. At other times, we feel frustrated we cannot quite manage what is needed; we seem to hit problems that are beyond us; we feel overcome by “the pressures of life". These four plays all show people of today suffering in one way or another from the pressures of life today. The plays are by different authors, and were written for different series, but they each have “the pressures of life” in common, and in each we meet characters who are having difficulty coping.

Short plays on television are one of the most popular and probably one of the best art forms of today. The television screen has encouraged a form of realistic, compressed, and popular drama which explores contemporary characters in contemporary settings. The best of these have a depth of understanding of human nature and the predicaments that people get into that makes the play seem more than just a typical problem of the moment. Neil’s conflict with Fred Pooley in the first play, for instance, makes us think about the ways in which people’s pride and their prejudices affect their relationship with others. These are, above all, plays about people, people pushing against their surroundings and fighting the pressures of life.

The atmosphere of each play is different, and the reader should try to imagine the background of each. Speech Day depends on the atmosphere of an old-fashioned school building, just as A Right Dream of Delight depends on the cheery, bright comfort of a modern light factory, and The Piano on our sensing of Ada’s house, which is cramped but homely and comforting. Readers can build up a picture of each setting, not only the look, but the sounds of the schoolboys singing, and the demolition machinery' at work — all the details which are hinted at or described in the printed text and which the television screen would bring to life.

One Step Ahead by Duncan McKenzie (Souvenir Press 1978)

 

A Misspent Youth

Sonic players need coaxing along, some need a kick up the backside to get the best out of them. I needed both kinds of treatment in my callow days and I got what I needed. Born a Methodist, I graduated from schoolboy football playing for a team run by a Roman Catholic priest and another team which operated in a local Sunday pub league, and I don’t suppose you can have greater contrasts than that.

My Soccer travels have taken me a long way since the days when I was kicking a ball around for my junior-school team at Old Clee, Grimsby, but I like to think that f still get as much of a kick out of the game now as I did then, although my views have changed somewhat over the years, and especially in the past 18 months or so. Some people might say that I’ve grown up, at last; others would argue that I have found my right niche in the professional game since I joined Everton and came under the influence of manager Gordon Lee. Me? - I feel that I have learned as I have gone along, that everyone I have encountered in Soccer has taught me something, and that my own native intelligence has taken me to a point where I have matured.

In my early days in the professional game, I saw some youngsters who needed coaxing being given the kicking treatment - verbally, if not physically and the result was that they failed to respond. I’m still convinced that they probably had as much ability as myself, had they been handled in the right way, psychologically, but what happened was that they became afraid. They were afraid of doing things wrong.

In and Out by Mat Coward (Five Star 2001)

 

Frank found the DI leaning against the car, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on a journey to the centre of the earth.

“Well, he was surprisingly talkative once he got going wasn't he?” said Frank, as he waited for Don to move so he could get into the car. “I thought you got a lot out of him, in the end.”

“It’s quality that counts,” Don replied. “Not quantity.”

“Aye, right, I suppose so.” Frank jiggled his keys. Don remained immobile. Never mind, thought Frank. I was used to a lot colder up North. “He certainly seems to know a bit about darts, anyway, our Mr. Hall.”

Now Don moved—he span away from the car as if it was red hot, and turned on Frank with a look of deep disappointment. “Frank, he knows bugger all about darts! What are you talking about, all those books? All that twenty-five grammes crap? He’s a pot-hunter, Frank. He’s a mercenary. God, man, Sean Hall doesn’t know the fundamentals of the game! Listen, darts isn’t about stance and grip and all that rubbish.” 

All that rubbish you were going on about in the pub the other day, thought Frank. “It isn’t?”

“Books of finishes, and quarter-finals, and trophies—it’s got nothing to do with all that.”

“It’s more a mental game, is what you’re saying?” Actually, now he came to think about it, bloody London could get cold enough, this time of year, thank you very much.

“Yes, yes, all that, but the point is, Frank, darts is about friendship. It’s about playing the game for its own sake. Look, for instance, there’s no handicapping in darts. Right? Not like golf. Now golf, that’s a game designed for keeping people in their place, a game designed to ensure the continuation of hierarchies. That’s why it’s only played by second-rate businessmen and shit comedians.”

“Right. Shall we get in the—”

“But darts—darts is a democracy. If you get beaten on the dartboard by someone who’s not a quarter the player you are, you’re really beaten—no handicap, no excuses. You see, Frank, darts is the only sport where there’s virtually no element of luck involved. Anything else—football, tennis, anything—you get a lucky bounce and you’re a hero. Or not. But with darts, you’re on your own, and a millimetre either way makes the difference between winning or losing.” Don ran his hands through his hair. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Oh, certainly. You’re saying—”

Don rattled the door handle on the passenger side. “Let’s call it a day, shall we?”

Frank bleeped the lock. “Yes, sir,” he said.

The Clearance by Joan Lingard (Hamish Hamilton Children's Books 1974)

 

‘I don't like hills,' I said, shocking the Frasers, as I knew I would. To them the hills were sacred; they plodded up and down them as purposefully and reverently as pilgrims trudging to Mecca. It's a form of religion. Like bingo, or football. My mother goes to bingo; Mrs Fraser takes to the hills. ‘I don't have to like them, do I?' I asked. I seemed to have struck them dumb. It was the first time that I hadn’t heard them chattering. I no longer felt awkward; I was enjoying myself.

‘She’s a city lass,’ said Granny apologetically.

No Wonder I Take a Drink by Laura Marney (Saraband 2004)

 

My lasting memory of Mum is of her standing leaning against her bed, wearing her good pearls, nicely turned out in a peach blouse and lemon cardi, bare naked from the waist down. She was threatening to sign herself out of the hospice for the third time that week. Anticipating this I had sneaked her in a half bottle of vodka. We both knew it would probably finish her off but that's the way she wanted it. She died three nights later. Before she died and after I'd helped her put her drawers on and poured her a watered-down vodka and coke, she nearly told me something.

I could see she was struggling and I suppose I should have been more patient or just told her to bloody well spit it out, but at the time I was too busy noticing that my mother had no pubic hair. I couldn't believe that, at age sixty-eight, she would take the trouble to give herself a shaven haven. Where would she have got hold of a razor? And besides, her hands shook most of the time.

At first I thought it was just another of her rants about the Health Service, actually a thinly disguised rant about her own health, but her tone was different, not angry, she seemed frightened. She closed her eyes and shook her head vigorously, the way she did when we argued. And then she went strange. She started rocking back and forth, moaning and shuddering.

'Your dad says I should ...'

She was scaring me with her amateur dramatics so I decided to nip it in the bud.

'Dad's dead, Mum, he died four years ago.’

Slowly she opened her eyes and showed me a thin aggressive smile.

The Glass Cage by Georges Simenon (Helen and Kurt Wolff Books 1971)

 

He did not answer.  No answer was required. He was still thinking of Fernand Lamark and that light oak coffin. One day, when he was feeling calm and clearheaded, he would make his will. In it he would give orders that he was to be cremated, for he did not want to be shut up in a box. Neither did he want people to come and see him on his deathbed or to accompany him into a church and then to the cemetery.

He would like to die without anyone's knowing. He did not want people to talk about him. He did not want them to pity him, only to forget him as soon as they left the house where his corpse lay.

The Crafty Cockney : the autobiography by Eric Bristow (Arrow Books 2008)

 

Streetwise

‘You play like a poof!’

These were, the words my dad George said to me when he first watched me play darts. I was eleven years old and he'd just bought me a board for my birthday. I was playing in my bedroom.

‘I can't take you down the pub if you play like that,' he said.

I’d never played darts before, but three weeks later I was getting regular three-dart scores of a hundred plus. The trouble was 1 had a unique style of throwing that in my dad's eyes looked suspect. It involved standing to the side and holding the dart lower down the barrel so my little finger rested on the tip of it. This hindered my throwing action. To overcome this I raised my little finger in the air so there was no contact with the point.

‘You look like a little posh boy holding a china teacup,’ he said.

‘Give it a rest, Dad,' I said to him. This is the way I play, and this is the way I'll always play.’

He didn’t like it, but it was a style that gave me five World Championships, five World Masters, two News of the World titles, four British Opens, three Butlins Grand Masters and numerous Open wins in Sweden, Denmark and North America, plus a host of other tides — and pretty soon everybody was copying my throwing style. As soon as I got good there were thousands of other players in pubs and clubs up and down the country all playing with raised pinkies. They thought they could be great darts players just by lifting up their little finger. What a bunch of wallies!

Like Punk Never Happened: Culture Club and the New Pop by Dave Rimmer (Faber and Faber 1985)

This is the story of Culture Club, but it’s also the story of pop music since punk. It’s the story of how a generation of New Pop stars, a generation that had come of age during punk, absorbed its methods, learnt its lessons, but ditched its ideals — setting charts ablaze and fans screaming all over the world. It’s the story of a whole new star system, of Adam Ant, Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran, Wham! and many others as well as Culture Club. It’s also the story of a magazine called Smash Hits.

I’ve chosen to base this story round Culture Club because in many ways they were the perfect New Pop group. Only Michael Jackson was more famous than Boy George. Colour By Numbers was the nearest thing to a perfect pop album the decade has produced. ‘Karma Chameleon’ was the nearest thing to a perfect pop single: pretty and sickly, complex and singalong, meaningless and meaningful all at the same time, rising to number one in Britain, the USA and just about everywhere else where pop records arc bought.

The only other group I could have written this story around would have been Duran Duran. Then there would maybe have been more about video, less about the press and dressing-up, but the essential details would have remained the same. In 1983, at the height of the New Pop period, Duran Duran and Culture Club were deadly rivals, but only different sides of the same coin.

As a writer for Smash Hits over this period — one which saw its circulation soar with the rise of the New Pop to become the world’s biggest-selling pop magazine I was allowed unusually close access. Unlike Fleet Street or the old music weeklies, Smash Hits was generally trusted not to ‘slag people off without good reason. I talked to, interviewed, travelled with, got to know and usually liked most of the New Pop stars. In writing this book, I’m not attempting to pass judgement on them, just to make some sense out of it all. And, I hope, make some money too.

In that sense, I’m as much a part of the New Pop which is really the Old Pop now as any of them.

Slim Jim Baxter: The Definitive Biography by Ken Gallacher (Virgin Books 2002)

 

The day following Jim Baxter's death a Scottish Cup semi-final took place at the new-look Hampden Park, now known more formally as the National Stadium, where Celtic were meeting Dundee United. At the Celtic end of the ground a banner had been draped from the stand by the Parkhead fans as they remembered, with respect, their old tormentor. It read 'Slim Jim. Simply The Best’ as the supporters even went out of their way to acknowledge the unofficial Ibrox anthem. It was a straightforward, sincere and moving message and one that Baxter — who, of course, had had little time for the sectarian divides in his adopted city of Glasgow — would have appreciated. The tribute at the semi-final, which Celtic won 3-1 on their way to a domestic 'treble', was a public recognition of his standing on that issue and an indication that his Old Firm rivals respected and honoured his views

It was also a genuine salute to one of the greatest footballers the country had produced. He was, after all, a man whose skills crossed all boundaries and whose talents were savoured by soccer connoisseurs around the world He may never have lost that distinctive singsong Fife accent even though he had been away from the coalfields which spawned him for more than forty years, but the language he spoke on the football field needed no translation.

His tragic death at the age of 61 came after years of illness and followed a shorter spell of less than three months' suffering after he had been warned by doctors that he had only a little time left to live. As a footballer his career had been one of near-constant controversy, and that was something that dogged him even when he had long stopped playing and had had an earlier brush with death seven years before.

Great Days at Grange Hill by Jan Needle (Fontana Lions 1984)

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Fighting Dirty

You lose one. you win one - that seemed to be the rule for One Alpha, even if it did not apply to Tucker and Benny. They lost one - and gained four each, across the hand, hard. Like the man said, they didn’t forget it in a hurry.

One Alpha lost Justin Bennett, for a time at least, and possibly for good depending on how his father felt when it came to it. But the class gained a replacement called Michael Doyle. He was about the same size and shape as Justin, although he was fair instead of dark. But there all similarities ended. Completely.

Tucker and Benny first saw Michael Doyle after a bit of horseplay on the stairs. They’d been discussing the school elections, for which Tucker was hoping to get a nomination, when Trisha Yates, another candidate, came clattering down. As she passed. Tucker knocked her exercise books flying. Without a word, but with enormous force, she swung her briefcase at his head, almost braining him. She was a hard one, Trisha. He almost saw stars.

‘Jenkins!’ It was Mr Mitchell, at the bottom. And with him was Michael Doyle, smiling strangely. ‘Jenkins,’ repeated Mr Mitchell wearily. ‘Can't you go anywhere without making a nuisance of yourself?’

Inside the art room. Trisha sat next to Judy Preston, and nudged her.

‘Watch Old Mitch,’ she whispered. ‘That’s his girlfriend, that Miss Mather. Bet you.’

The girls watched like hawks. Mr Mitchell certainly smiled in a friendly-friendly way at the art teacher, and she was quite good looking for her age. He introduced her to the new boy.

‘Miss Mather,’ said Old Mitch. ‘This is Michael Doyle.’

‘Oh yes, Michael. Weren't you recently in Mr Malcolm's class?’

Judy and Trisha exchanged grins. She had a dead peculiar voice. Miss Mather. She was from Belfast.

‘Yes, Miss,’ said Michael Doyle.

‘Right,’ said the art teacher. ‘Well, go and find yourself a place. I’ll see you later.’

She faced the class. Mr Mitchell was still beside her. ‘Quiet, please.' she said. ‘Today I want you to continue with the props for the school festival. Everybody collect your equipment and make a start, OK? I’ll be around to see you shortly.’

As the children sorted themselves out, Mr Mitchell asked her how the festival arrangements were coming on. Miss Mather flashed him a warm smile.

‘Oh very well,’ she said. ‘Far better than 1 expected. Oh, I’ve got one problem, the props for the school play. I need a pair of flintlocks. You know, antique pistols for the kids to use as models.’

‘Tricky.’

‘It is, yes. Anyway—what about Doyle?’

Mr Mitchell’s face got serious.

‘Not much to tell,’ he said. ‘He could be a bit of a problem I’m afraid. He and a couple of his friends were caught bullying, so Mrs Munroe decided to split them up.’ 

Miss Mather gave a rich laugh.

‘And put them under your firm hand of authority!’ she said.

‘It’s my fiendish neckhold!’

Michael Doyle, although he had not been assigned any work yet. decided to collect a paintbrush from the pots. On his way back to his table, he noticed Benny’s — unattended. Michael’s brush was tatty. Benny's was new. So he did a swap. Benny, as it happened, was returning to his table, and saw it.

‘Oy,’ he said. ‘That’s my brush! Give it back!’

Doyle sized him up. Tiny. He gave a supercilious smile and turned away. When Benny grabbed at him, he swung round and pushed him hard. Benny careered four feet into Tucker’s painting arm.

Bobby Dazzler: My Story by Bobby George (Orion 2006)

Yes, he could be arrogant at times, both on and off the oche, but I think he needed that for his game. There was never any malice there. If he had something to say, he would always say it to your face and I respected him for that. He was blunt but he was also honest and I never once heard him bad mouth anyone behind their back.

In 1977, Eric and I won the pairs at the Crayford Open and almost met each other in the final of the singles. I reached the final and Eric got to die semi-finals where he lost to Peter Chapman, a darts veteran and former News of the World champion.

Peter had a big hairy chest and used to love to show it oft by playing dart with his shirt open all the way down to just above his navel. Eric was never shy in coming forward and mentioned the chest hair to Peter, asking if he grew an extra hair every time he lost a match. When Peter asked why. Eric replied. ‘Well, you’re playing my mate in the final and you've just grown another one. Look!’ He could be a saucy bastard at times.

The two of us had some great times together, particularly in the early days, winning lots of tournaments and causing havoc all over the place with our money races. We always had a laugh too. I once played Eric in St Paul’s Way, east London. I went up to the oche and hit the wire under the treble 20 three times in a row. No score. Eric was in hysterics until he got up to the oche and did exactly the same with his three darts. No score.

Six darts hit six wires. It was incredible. I have never seen or heard of anything like that before or since. Some drunk in the crowd heckled us and told us we were rubbish. Quick as a flash. Eric went over, offered him his darts and said, ‘Go on then, you do it. Hit the wire three times.’ It was a priceless moment.

At that time, money races were the only way to earn good money from darts, and if you were a decent player, this was normally easy money, too. Eric and I were normally so confident that we carried little cash on us because normally we won. I say, normally.

One night I drove Eric to the Mother Hubbard pub in Loughton, where he took on Bob Wood in a money race for £200, which was a great deal of money back then. He lost. Eric came up to me at the bar and asked me to lend him the money to cover his debt, but I had nothing like that amount of cash on me. We were both flummoxed for a moment, until Eric went over to Bob and offered him a game of ’double or quits’ against me! Suddenly, I was the one in the firing line. If I won, we were in the clear and if I lost, we somehow had to find £400.

The match was played over seven legs of 1001 and at one stage I was in serious trouble against him. With little money in our pockets. Eric and I were about to get lynched by the locals, and we were outnumbered by about 30 to one. At the end of one leg, I walked over to Eric and handed him the keys to my Ford Cortina, parked outside. I told him that if I looked like losing, he had to get outside, start up the engine and leave the passenger door open for me. In the worst-case scenario, we would have to make a run for it. We would have no other choice. The money race would probably turn into a car chase.

I went back to the oche and no sooner had I played my first three darts of the next leg when Eric shouted out with the keys in his hand, ‘Bob, I can’t drive.’ I couldn’t believe it. Talk about waking me up! Our only chance now was for me to win the match. I pulled out several maximums and nicked it on the final leg. I was wet through with sweat at the end, and that was just to cancel out a bet that Eric lost. We left the pub without a penny between us, and never went back.

That was our apprenticeship but there is no doubt that such experiences improved our darts. My game was improving all the time. The cheques and the trophies were proof of that.

Eric and I became the game's version of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and we stuck up for each other through thick and thin. I will never forget that about him. Most of the others just looked after themselves but he wasn't like that.

Leighton Rees On Darts edited by Dave Lanning (Atheneum 1979)

But darts, like so many Sports, is a question of pacing, of reaching a peak at the exact right moment. Now, on reflection, I realize I had peaked just a game too soon. That semifinal was the high-spot and, without any disrespect to George Champion, I believe I could still have beaten him had I played more steadily than spectacularly. I needed the peak form I had just enjoyed for the final because only the very best would have contained my opponent, the computerishly consistent Billy Lennard.

Maybe I simply "peaked" too soon, or maybe it was the circumstances that affected me, because there was a very long interval before the Grand Final, the most momentous match of my life. The competition was ahead of schedule for the television boys who were broadcasting live at 3:35 P.M. Lennard and I were ready to go at about 3:00 P.M. Timings were further complicated by an objection to the winner of the 3:30 P.M. horse race that the TV network was also covering. Thus, the TV boys came in for a fair hit of criticism over that long wait, which thousands of Welshmen believed was my undoing. It was not until much later that it was established that it was the organizers, the News of the World, who had specifically requested live coverage. The TV people would have been perfectly satisfied to record the final as scheduled (which now, in fact, is the practice) and replay the tape later.

I have no clear recollection of that “long wait.” It remains one of those moments in life which are like suspended animation—floating in space as the astronauts do must produce a similar sensation. At the time it was all high octane, but now I have no standout memory of that delay.

American freelance writer Jack McClintock, who has contributed to Esquire, Playboy, the New York Times and the Washington Post, was among the ten thousand at Alexandra Palace that day, and his account, colorful and so typically American, is much more graphic than anything I can outline:

  When Leighton Rees was introduced it triggered something like a primal scream from thousands of highly charged Welshmen, a quality of uninhibited bedlam I don’t think I've ever witnessed before. The Great Hall was suddenly like a vast pinball machine in which every ball and bumper had a mouth and a can of beer. The Welsh enthusiasts sung a song containing no apparent vowels . . .

  . . . the final match for the championship would be played between Rees and Lennard and it was not only for the sake of suspense that there had to be an interval then. Foe the first time the crowd seemed almost a rabble Their noise was stupendous. Two shirtless young men reeled and lurched down the center aisle, hugging and screaming with joy and Welsh pride, bashing into chairs along the way.

  A dozen more clambered onto the stage carrying banners emblazoned with their favorites name— Leighton Rees, of course. They screamed. They waved their banners. They waved cans of pale ale. They waved pork pies. They waved, and munched, fat green leeks by the stems. They emitted almost visible exhalations. They stumbled, bellowed, grinned, pranced, belched, stomped, hollered, roared. One bounded to the brink and flexed a muscle-man pose for the TV cameras. Down front a young man held a five-pint beer can to his face with both hands and drank from it like a fat. thirsty baby.

  At the pillars the cans piled higher, rolled across the floor, more beer cans than I have ever seen. One rolled farther and a man descending from the bleachers stepped on it. The can rolled and he fell with a great noise. He got up, rubbed his eyes. absently kicked the can and tottered to the gents. . . .

 . . . Leonard and Rees were on the stage but the television people were not yet ready. Lennard stood smiling with his darts in his hand, his flights brightly emblazoned with the Union Jack. Rees stood beside him. portly in his red shirt, his dart flights a quiet, respectable, eminently restrained and tasteful white. The two men seemed to float on sound, ignoring each other, ignoring the crowd. two men alone and self-constrained, concentrating. The throng had moved up close like fans at a rock concert.

  A dignified announcement came from the ringmaster: the television problem would be solved in a moment. Ten feet away a young man with a beer in each fist shouted into one of those inexplicable sileces: “Stuff the television up your arsehole and let's get on with the game!” I glanced at Leighton Rees. He looked pained and embarrassed. Lennard smiled gallantly.

Billy won the toss for strike and after a third throw of 125 was always in command of the first leg. He produced another 120 at exactly the right moment to leave double eighteen, which he hit with his second dart. I had not managed to return a ton and still needed seventy-four when Billy checked out. In the second leg. it was a dour, tense struggle until Billy again produced a big score at the most telling time-a 137 (20-60-57} to leave himself two sixteens, the tactic of a true champion.

He duly wrapped up the title in nineteen darts and, in what should have been the fulfillment of a dream, I had not managed one score of a hundred, nor had had one poke at a double out. I had been well and truly beaten by a much better man of the moment.

Just for the record, here are the scores in that 1976 Grand Final, from the official News of the World sheet that is among my souvenirs;

First leg

Lennard: 55-45-125-60-60-120-36 

Rees: 85-45-85-55-60-97 

Second leg

Lennard: 62-60-40-85-85-137-32 

Rees: 60-40-83-41-60-55-60

Steaming In: Journal of a Football Fan by Colin Ward (Simon & Schuster 1989)

The first half and the fairy tale continued. Leatherhead went two-nil ahead with Kelly scoring one, making the other goal and generally tormenting Leicester without mercy. At half-time all that could be seen was the 'Kelly Shuffle' and the drinking (and spilling) of beer. In the second half the slaughter continued for a while. Kelly went round the goalkeeper and should have scored, but the ball was stopped on the line. I can still close my eyes and remember him going round the Leicester keeper and shouting 'Goal!' I don't think Leicester would have come back from three-nil down, but as it was this was the turning point of the match. Leicester scored, then destroyed a tiring Leatherhead, finally winning three-two. Nevertheless, the cheers at the end were all for Leatherhead. We left the ground disappointed but privileged to have witnessed one of the greatest performances ever by an amateur team.

Leicester fans approached Leatherhead fans in the street, shaking their hands and saying 'Great match' and 'Cor, what a game.' Had we won the match it is more likely that they would have been waiting to smash our heads in. In an instant, we would have been transformed from the quaint amateur team who had provided entertainment into the bastards who had humiliated and knocked Leicester out of the FA Cup.

A crowd of over 37,000 had witnessed the game and those present will never forget it. To this day everyone who was there talks about Kelly's miss. That night on Match of the Day on BBC 1 Jimmy Hill interviewed Chris Kelly. 'We'll be back next year, Jimmy,' said Chris - although sadly this was not to be. Nevertheless, Leatherhead have the proud record of never having lost to a professional team on their own ground, and have since beaten Cambndge United and drawn with Colchester United and Swansea City.

XTC: Chalkhills and Children by Chris Twomey (Omnibus Press 1992)

The day after Todd arrived from San Francisco, recording got underway, concentrating on basic guitar and keyboard pans before moving to San Francisco where Rundgren had booked session musicians to work on drum-tracks and other overdubs.

Right from the off it was obvious that Todd and Andy weren't going to get on. Andy was used to having a large measure of control over everything XTC did and Todd wasn’t letting him have any say - barely paying lip service to his ideas and suggestions. Andy Partridge, the irresistible force, had finally met his match in Todd Rundgren, the immovable object. One was a producer determined to produce, the other an artist determined to resist.

Nothing Andy said or did could soften Todd or dent his arrogant demeanour. His sense of humour - often used as a way of getting people on his side - had no effect. Todd would deal Andy's jokes a fatal blow with a deadpan comment like “Stop, you're killing me", and offered none of the deference Andy was used to receiving. To Andy this was all a way of trying to break his morale. "At times he'd launch into me in an abusive fashion, ” he says. "He'd say things like Where did you get those jeans from? God, they look like you bought them from Russia! Christ look at them!' It was all a way of making you feel small so that he could stand on top and you'd accept his ideas without question. *'

On the occasions that Andy stuck by his guns and refused to give in, Todd would walk out of the studio saying, "You can dick around with this all day. I'm going up to the house, and when you've realised that my way is the right way to do it, you call me.”

After a few weeks of this ritual humiliation, Andy was ready to quit. “I’m not enjoying this,” he told the rest. "I’m thinking of knocking the album on the head. It's like having two Hitlers in the same bunker."

Dave was appalled. "Don't be daft,” he said. "Just go along with it and we ll do another record as soon as we get back. We've still got plenty of songs that Todd hasn't chosen."

The Recollections of Rifleman Harris by Benjamin Harris and Henry Curling (Archon Books 1848)

 

My father was a shepherd, and I was a sheep-boy from my earliest youth. Indeed, as soon almost as I could run, I began helping my father to look after the sheep on the downs of Blandford, in Dorsetshire, where I was born. Whilst I continued to tend the flocks and herds under my charge, and occasionally (in the long winter nights) to learn the art of making shoes, I grew a hardy little chap, and was one fine day in the year 1802 drawn as a soldier for the Army of Reserve.* Thus, without troubling myself much about the change which was to take place in the hitherto quiet routine of my days, I was drafted into the 66th Regiment of Foot, bid good-bye to my shepherd companions, and was obliged to leave my father without an assistant to collect his flocks, just as he was beginning more than ever to require one; nay, indeed, I may say to want tending and looking after himself, for old age and infirmity were coming on him; his hair was growing as white as the sleet of our downs, and his countenance becoming as furrowed as the ploughed fields around. However, as I had no choice in the matter, it was quite as well that I did not grieve over my fate.

My father tried hard to buy me off, and would have persuaded the sergeant of the 66th that I was of no use as a soldier, from having maimed my right hand (by breaking a forefinger when a child). The sergeant, however, said I was just the sort of little chap he wanted, and off he went, carrying me (amongst a batch of recruits he had collected) away with him.

Almost the first soldiers I ever saw were those belonging to the corps in which I was now enrolled a member, and, on arriving at Winchester, we found the whole regiment there in quarters. Whilst lying at Winchester (where we remained three months), young as I was in the profession, I was picked out, amongst others, to perform a piece of duty that, for many years afterwards, remained deeply impressed upon my mind, and gave me the first impression of the stern duties of a soldier's life. A private of the 70th Regiment had deserted from that corps, and afterwards enlisted into several other regiments; indeed, I was told at the time (though I cannot answer for so great a number) that sixteen different times he had received the bounty and then stolen off. Being, however, caught at last, he was brought to trial at Portsmouth, and sentenced by general court-martial to be shot.

The 66th received a route to Portsmouth to be present on the occasion, and, as the execution would be a good hint to us young 'uns, there were four lads picked out of our corps to assist in this piece of duty, myself being one of the number chosen.

Besides these men, four soldiers from three other regiments were ordered on the firing-party, making sixteen in all. The place of execution was Portsdown Hill, near Hilsea Barracks, and the different regiments assembled must have composed a force of about fifteen thousand men, having been assembled from the Isle of Wight, from Chichester, Gosport, and other places. The sight was very imposing, and appeared to make a deep impression on all there. As for myself, I felt that I would have given a good round sum (had I possessed it) to have been in any situation rather than the one in which I now found myself; and when I looked into the faces of my companions I saw, by the pallor and anxiety depicted in each countenance, the reflection of my own feelings. When all was ready, we were moved to the front, and the culprit was brought out. He made a short speech to the parade, acknowledging the justice of his sentence, and that drinking and evil company had brought the punishment upon him.

He behaved himself firmly and well, and did not seem at all to flinch. After being blindfolded, he was desired to kneel down behind a coffin, which was placed on the ground, and the drum-major of the Hilsea depot, giving us an expressive glance, we immediately commenced loading.

This was done in the deepest silence, and, the next moment, we were primed and ready. There was then a dreadful pause for a few moments, and the drum-major, again looking towards us, gave the signal before agreed upon (a flourish of his cane), and we levelled and fired. We had been previously strictly enjoined to be steady, and take good aim, and the poor fellow, pierced by several balls, fell heavily upon his back; and as he lay, with his arms pinioned to his sides, I observed that his hands wavered for a few' moments, like the fins of a fish when in the agonies of death. The drum-major also observed the movement, and, making another signal, four of our party immediately stepped up to the prostrate body, and placing the muzzles of their pieces to the head, fired, and put him out of his misery. The different regiments then fell back by companies, and the word being given to march past in slow time, when each company came in line with the body, the word was given to 'mark time/ and then 'eyes left' in order that we might all observe the terrible example. We then moved onwards, and marched from the ground to our different quarters. The 66th stopped that night about three miles from Portsdown Hill, and in the morning we returned to Winchester. The officer in command that day, I remember, was General Whitelocke, who was afterwards brought to court-martial himself.* 

* The Militia Act of 1802 had provided for the raising of 51,500 men by ballot. Those who could afford the current rate of £20 to £30 were allowed to pay a substitute to serve in their place. A second Militia Act. providing for the enlistment of another 25,000 men. was passed in 1803.

* Lieutenant-General John Whitelocke (1757-1833). His incompetent direction of the attack upon the Spanish in Buenos Ayres, and his subsequent withdrawal from Montevideo, led to his being brought before a court-martial at Chelsea on 28 January, 1808. After a trial Listing seven weeks he was found guilty and sentenced to be cashiered. He spent the rest of his life in retirement.