When I was a kid in the late ‘60’s, me mam, to use the colloquial term, would often send me to the local shops, about a ten minute walk away, over a main road. I was aged around six – nobody ever thought anything of such a task for a child in those days. Less weirdos about and certainly a lot less cars. Although there was a creepy child catcher in that dreadful film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, what were they thinking of? That is, the catcher was creepy, he wasn’t out snaring creepy kids off the street, performing a proper civic duty. All the kids were adorable. It was some lame musical production with a flying car of all things. I don’t recall ever watching it, but I knew a bloke who was supposedly a dead ringer for the child catcher. Personally I don’t like musicals, other than The Blues Brothers.
Supermarkets hadn’t been invented. There was a small local shopping precinct with the essential butcher, baker, veg shop, newsagent and proverbial red phone box. This scruffy red box was the lifeline for every minor or major emergency in the community. Nobody had a house phone. If you legged it, you could get there in five minutes flat. The doctor would be summoned. House calls were a regular thing, twenty-four hours a day. Women still gave birth at home. I remember being ushered out of the bedroom and given a bunch of peas to shell as my sister was being delivered. Dropping them in to a blue plastic colander, wondering what all the fuss was about.
“Our Andrew, go get a 1/4lb mince from the butchers please” Mam’d give me a coin. For those of you in foreign climes, mince is ground beef. Mushed up cow. Later in life that caused me lots of trouble in some US food store. These days the call would be something like “Oi Beckham you little bastard, go get a pizza from that lard ass down the road. And make sure I get some fucking change” Assuming you still lived in the same location as me.
I’d amble off up the road saying to myself “1/4lb of mince, 1/4lb of mince, 1/4lb of mince…” all the way to the butcher’s. I had to walk past where the “rough kids” lived. Harmless enough in reality, but they lived in council housing. These were very respectable, well maintained, three bed semi’s, built, owned and cared for by the Corporation. Owned by the country in fact. Great idea, till Thatcher fucked it. Sadly now a relic of the past it would seem. The occupants were deemed “rough” by automatic default, as we, or my parents, had made the leap and sold their souls for a mortgage. Virtually unheard of in those days, early 1960’s. Betraying their Class. We were now in a better bracket, higher tier, allegedly, no longer renting off the Corporation. I was born on the notorious Brambles Farm Estate in Middlesbrough. Prior to living in a council house, mam had had to knit us somewhere to live, took her ages, kept dropping stitches and there was always the perennial problem with moths. Much better than the regular old cardboard box, though both suffered with damp. We bought a house that looked just like a council house but wasn’t. For this crime against the class system they were ostracised by a certain branch of the family. Just not the done thing, getting above your station in life, aspirations, ought to be beaten out of you. Be wanting to buy a bloody fridge next and own a new coat.
Dashing in to the shop I’d ask for 4lb of mince. The butcher would give me a knowing look, then ask to see how much money I’d got, inspecting my sweaty palm, nodding and give me the required 1/4lb wrapped in grease proof paper or maybe it was newspaper, that detail eludes me. I always hated this transaction, as the change would invariably come back to me with a bit of red minced beef stuck to it, rapidly transferring to my hand, as if it still had a life of its own. Never liked the smell of a butcher’s shop. Used to have sawdust scattered on the floor in those days.
I didn’t realise, until much later in life, that mam was feeding a family of five on 1/4lb of mince, with lots of potatoes, onions and carrots thrown in. Sometimes it was the same dish but with corned beef as a mince substitute, whatever the fuck that was. Always coated in a thick creamy saturated fat, as it slid out of the tin. No corn in sight but salty as fuck. Fried off in the pan with some added lard, so it wouldn’t stick, only to your heart, but the pan was ok, no Teflon then. Nobody used oil in those days.
Sometimes, on pay day, we had pork chops with a glossy slice of maroon red kidney included in the cut from the unfortunate swine. An inch thick, bristle covered mrind of fat holding it all together. Gross. “Eat the fat, it’s good for you….” Was the regular call. I never did. My dad used to scoff it.
Proper heart attack fodder. Blokes had jammers early in life, whether brought on by all the fags or pork chops I don’t know, but they’d usually snuffed it by the time you’d managed to race to the phone box down the road.
It’s strange how we can remember such detail. I was only four when my sister was born. Or were the peas a learnt memory?
I get similar situations with guitars. A bloke on the phone trying to sell me his 1972 vintage all-original Strat. My quizzing slowly reveals the history, “A few alterations, no big deal… Floyd Rose fitted in 1975, oh yeah scalloped board, new pickups, replaced pots, purple refinish” – “But it’s still all vintage mate … worth a few quid.”
Another guitar recently brought in by a nice old boy, 1966 Tele’, owned from new, all original. Except the stripped finish, which had genuinely completely slipped his mind. And also the new pot’s and switch, recently fitted gratis and totally without his knowledge or instruction, by another local Nottingham repair shop. 1960’s parts worth about £300 on Reverb these days. This does go on, sadly.
A bloke phone’s up. Wants to know what brand and model the red electric guitar was that he sold to me about ten years ago. Unbelievable. Said it was definitely me, bloke with beard & glasses. Like I can remember if I had a beard way back then. Who am I, memory man? He was astonished when advised I could not even remember the transaction, much less care. It was definitely a blue colander with peas though.
I reckon it was Sonic Blue. The colander that is. I’ve always liked those Fender pastel colours from the 1960’s. Not that we ever saw them in the day. Black and white tv didn’t help in that respect, if you were lucky enough to have one. Colour tv was a total rarity, probably not mainstream until the 1980’s in the UK. Apparently you could rent tellies with a coin slot, pay per view. You dropped a coin in, turned the knob and the tv came on until your cash ran out after some pre-determined time frame. I never saw a slot-tv, but they existed. Nobody ever saw a real Fender in those days either. Not unless you lived in some big city. Which was inconceivable.
As you probably know the pastel paint colours followed the US car fashion trends of the day. Surf Green, Shell Pink, Sonic Blue, Daphne Blue, Sea Foam Green. Fender buying paint off Du Pont, or whoever, that supplied paint to the big hitters like Chrysler. The colours seem timeless and age and fade gracefully. At the moment they are the colours of choice in the NCG workshop, along with Lake Placid Blue. Take a look at the Gallery and guitars for sale Shell pink will be the next one and there are always more in the pipeline.
