By now it must have been about 1973, as I can recall the charts were full of groups like Slade, the Sweet, The Bay City Rollers and Suzi Quatro. It’s strange but certain songs take you back to a period in your life and ‘Get Down’ by Gilbert O’Sullivan is one of those songs, which is synomonous with this period in my life.
Liverpool had not changed in my absence, I learnt that my Dad had remarried at some point and was now living in the Kensington area of Liverpool, and my Mum had returned from the Isle of Man and was living in a flat in Torrington Drive, in Halewood, with her partner and my younger sister, and she was expecting another child anytime now.

My Brother had lived with My Auntie and Uncle for a while in Trowbridge Street, in the Bullring area of Liverpool, but his challenging and often unpredictable behaviours, had seen him taken back into the care of Liverpool Social Services. I am aware that he spent about 12 months in ‘Colomendy’ in their boarding School, and vaguely remembering visiting him there at one time. He was understandably jealous of me, and the stability I had with my Nan, and during this period 73/74 was a complete bastard towards me, taking every opportunity he could to bully me and threaten me. I laugh now when I see pictures Of Gilbert O’Sullivan, but I can recall lots of people at the time commenting on the resemblance between Gilbert O’Sullivan and him, and thinking back yes, they were similar, they both looked liked ‘twats’. Wherever possible I would do all I could to avoid him, but it was difficult when he would turn up at my new home without warning.

My new home was to be Emery Street, in Walton, Liverpool, literally a few hundred yards from Goodison Park home of Everton Football Club, I recall thinking that my young life had gone full circle I had started life in a two bed roomed terraced property next to Anfield, and here I was 12/13 years later continuing life in a two bed roomed terraced property virtually next to Goodison Park.

It wasn’t long before I was established back in Liverpool, and was enrolled at Alsop Comprehensive School, and attended both the Arnot Street site and Queens Drive Site. I can’t remember how long we had been back in Liverpool, but I do recall my Nan dropping me off in a taxi at my Dads, who at this time lived in Cameron Street, which is off Durning Lane, Edge Hill. She said something like she was going for a job interview and would pick me up later, and off she went. I didn’t see her for another three months, long interviews in them days.

It transpired that my Nan had, had a nervous breakdown, with the Death of my granddad, and associated financial difficulties, and the lack of apparent financial & emotional support off my parents, she had just had enough, years later when I spoke to her about ‘abandoning me’ she was upset, and said “yes I did leave you, but I didn’t know who too turn to for help at this time and thought I was leaving you in the capable hands of your Dad”.

That may have been the case, but god I hated the woman he had married and the feelings were mutual. Initially my Dad was taken aback when I landed on his doorstep, but he had little choice but to take me in, it was either that, or contact Social Services again. It was clear from the onset that I was not welcome and his excuse of a wife, made her feelings known, she told me from the very beginning that I was to refer to my dad as ‘Michael’ when anyone was present, and if asked say he was my uncle. I later learnt that her parents, were unaware that their daughters new husband had previously been married and had three children, hence her reasons to magic me away.

The strange thing is I never did call him Michael, I couldn’t, so I just referred to him as ‘hey’ or ‘you’, a few years later he went on to have three girls to his wife, and it really used to cut me up when they called him ‘Daddy’ or ‘Dad’, the poor little buggers never knew I was their Brother, and to this day I don’t know if they know of my existence. Where is ‘Cilla Black’ when you need her, fuckin hell that would be one ‘helluva’ edition of ‘Surprise Surprise’.

Cameron Street does not hold particularly pleasant childhood memories for me or any lasting memories come to that, however I do recall one incident when the ‘Wicked Stepmother’ tried to kill me. My dad had gone to work, he was now working in the Transmission Plant in Fords, (where he remained until his retirement) and soon after he left the house, the ‘Wicked Stepmother’ for no reason at all, took hold of me by the neck and pinned me up against a wall in the house, she told me in no uncertain terms I was not welcome in her home and suggested I “Fuck Off” the venom and hatred she exuded was terrifying, and as she was spewing this out, she was strangling me, and I could barely breath, I managed to loosen her grip, and ran crying out of the house, towards Kensington, I didn’t know where I was going or what I was going to do, but I was truly scared and feared for my safety. My options where limited as I did not want to go back into care, I realised that I couldn’t stay at my Dads, and to go to my Mums wasn’t an option I even considered.

I was 12/13 years old and I seriously considered taking my own life, it seemed the only option at the time. So there I was sat in a shop doorway in ‘Kenny’ with a tear stained face, wondering how do you go about killing yourself? I did consider going the local library and looking up an idiots guide titled “how to kill yourself without hurting” (I had a very low pain threshold) but I decided against that idea, as I sat there pondering, I literally shit myself when I looked up and saw ‘The Wicked Stepmother’ standing over me, I had always been resourceful and thought maybe I wouldn’t have to kill myself after all, she will do it for me, but it transpired that she had a guilty conscience and had come looking for me, she attempted some small talk with me, but I was to scared to reply.

What happened next I still find strange to this day, she wiped my tears and helped me to my feet and led me to a local sport shop and asked me to choose anything I wanted from the window display, my head was ‘battered’ to witness such polar displays of hatred and then apparent compassion really freaked me out, I was truly scared of this woman, I thought she was mad, but not being one to miss an opportunity I chose a ‘Colin Harvey’ tee-shirt from the shop display, (Colin Harvey played and later managed Everton FC) which she proceeded to purchase for me. It did come at a price though as she made me promise not to mention her earlier outburst, which I never did.

The following morning I noticed that my dad had deep scratches down his face, and it was so apparent that ‘she’ had done it, as they were consistent with finger nail scratches, he looked a proper pathetic figure, I suspected she had done it whilst telling him that I couldn’t stay there, because shortly afterwards my dad told me I was going to stay with My ‘Auntie Kathleen’ and ‘Uncle Harry’ in Halewood.
Oh good, I hear you say, maybe, but I didn’t even know I had a ‘fuckin’ Auntie Kath or Uncle Harry. It transpired that Kath and Harry where friends of my Nans who had shown her and my Dad kindness, when they first arrived in Liverpool, and as luck would have it, Kath now worked in the Personnel department at Fords. I suspect my dad had spun her a hard luck story whilst in work and managed to offload me on to this philanthropist couple that couldn’t have children of their own, and they offered me a home.

As a 12 year old you have very little say in your future, so I just packed my few belongings and waited for Kath and Harry to come and collect me. In hindsight Kath and Harry were two of the nicest people you would want to meet, but there lifestyle was so alien to me, they were certainly very upper middle class and owned their own detached Bungalow in a nice area of Halewood, both of them owned there own cars, and they both spoke very posh, it was quite clear to me that this was not going to last, and I recall being very miserable during my short stay there.

Thankfully it wasn’t to last as I got a letter from my Nan in Plymouth asking me to join her, the necessary arrangements were made, and I excitedly headed for Lime Street and platform seven to catch the 9.20am train to Plymouth, I think it was Kath and Harry who dropped me off at Lime Street, but I did not expect to see both my mum and dad at the station. My Mum had turned up with her friend Elsie and my Dad had turned up with his ‘witch’. God I couldn’t wait for that train to leave, I felt so awkward running between both my mum and dad and spending any time with either of them, for fear of the other being offended, to say there was an atmosphere would be a major understatement, at one point I deliberated telling my mum what the ‘witch’ had done to me, but felt I could do without a scene, so I kept my gob shut. Eventually the train left and I bade my farewells and pretended to be upset at leaving them both, but in truth I was made up to be getting away from them.

The journey passed without issue and I arrived in Plymouth at about 16.45, to be greeted by both my Nan and my uncle, it had been three months since I had last seen her and at last I felt I belonged here and was so pleased to be back with my Nan in Plymouth, but it was only to be a temporary stay, as my Nan informed me that we were going on Holiday to Butlins in Minehead and then returning home to Liverpool. The thought of a holiday in Butlins appealed to me so I wasn’t too upset at having to return to Liverpool, at least I would be returning to Emery Street and picking up where I had left off.

I had a great time in Butlins along with my Nan, and uncle and auntie and their daughter and my auntie’s old mum. The old mum was a lovely old dear, but could she fart, one of my lasting memories of that holiday was giggling at night listening to her farting and my Nan tutting in disgust. My Nan and me shared a bunk bed, whilst the old dear had the pleasure of a double divan, I literally cracked up, listening to this old woman fart all night. Even to this day I still laugh at farts or fart type humour, childish I know, but blame the old dear.

Whilst in Butlins I managed to cop off with some girls, and would strut around Butlins like a big stud, but it was hard work keeping three girls secret from each other and Butlins wasn’t that big. Whilst out one night with one of the girls I was approached by some big gorilla, who must have been about eighteen he claimed I had been knocking off his bird (the sum amount of my sexual experience at this time, still remained delectable Dee from the church doorway and a few stolen kisses outside various girls chalets!) so to be accused of ‘knocking some bird off’ was in my eyes, quite a compliment, I started swaggering and said something which further provoked this animal, who was now frothing at the mouth, and threatening to rip my head off and shit in the hole,  I remember he took hold of my two wrists, so I swiftly kneed him in the ‘ollocks’ and as he went down I butted him forcefully on the top of his head, splitting my head open in the process, but it was worth it, as I felt ten feet tall, as I calmly walked away with my girl friend, whilst this animal lie in agony on the floor, word soon got out, around the teenagers in the camp, and I was afforded respect that week that I have never experienced since. My lasting memory of Butlins was dancing in the disco to various songs of the day, but the tune that sticks in my mind from that holiday is ‘Limmie and the Family Cookin’ singing ‘You Can Do Magic’, to this day whenever I hear that song I am back in Butlins in the seventies.

Upon my return to Walton, Liverpool it was quite clear I had the ‘holiday blues’ I wanted to be back at ‘Butlins’ in Minehead, a number of friends I had made during the course of the holiday, where staying for a further week, so after a couple of days in Liverpool, I decided to return to Butlins, so after telling my Nana I was playing out for a while, I took myself off to Lime Street station, and purchased a Platform Ticket, in the pretence of observing the trains, once on the platform I simply boarded the train, and made myself comfortable for the long journey.  In hindsight this was certainly a misguided course of action, and obviously not very well thought out, as in hours My Nana would have raised the alarm, when I had not returned home, particularly due to the fact that a 10 year old local boy by the name of John Noone (who coincidentally also lived with his nana) on City Road, had been murdered in Stanley Park recently, and to my knowledge his murderer had not been arrested, so tensions in the area where particularly high. However as a 12 year old I had not considered this and my sole intention was to spend another week at ‘Butlins’. My journey continued without incident and when the ticket collector would come round I would simply bypass him and go to the toilet, telling him my parents had my tickets further up the train, which seemed to appease him. As the journey progressed I became more and more anxious and started regretting my impulsive actions, by the time the train had reached the Somerset area (some six hours later) I was really scared, and made the decision to ‘turn myself in’ to the guard. The guard was very understanding and contacted the Police further up the line, as a result the train had to make an unscheduled stop at a provincial station, to allow me to alight, when the train stopped I was so embarrassed, as I was led away by the local police, much to the wonderment of the watching passengers.

The local police, who I suspected where secretly pleased to have something happening on their ‘patch’, treated me very fair and after they had completed their questioning, they fed me and placed me in an open cell over night, informing me I would be returning to Liverpool the following morning. I spent the majority of that evening imagining my homecoming, and my loving parents waiting patiently for the incoming train to arrive at Lime Street, signaling my safe return (I had a very vivid imagination in those days…I had only been away one night!!). The following morning I was escorted to the local train station, and I can recall the Police Officers talking to a middle aged couple on the train, and asking them would they keep an eye on me, and ensure my safe return to Liverpool, to which they agreed.
How times have changed, can you imagine that happening today in the society we live in? “ermm excuse me Mr. & Mrs. Brady can you keep this youngster safe for the next six or seven hours” . As it happened the couple were fine, and even treated me to a sandwich and drink en route, which passed without further incident. When the train pulled in to Liverpool Lime Street, the couple escorted me to the ticket barrier, where I observed both my Nana and Dad waiting, I sheepishly smiled and expected them both to lurch forward and thank god for my safe return, but unfortunately it didn’t quite work out like that, after my Nana had thanked the middle aged couple for their kindness, my dad literally grabbed me by the hair, despite my Nanas protests and pulled me forcibly to the taxi rank which was situated outside Platform 7, he gave no consideration to other people in the queue, and threw me in to the first hackney cab, kicking me in the groin in the process, he was oblivious to the protests of others in the queue, and demanded the taxi driver take us to Emery Street, Walton, by now my Nana was crying, and I was shitting myself, my Dad looked like a crazed man, and I feared for my welfare. Upon arriving home, I was dragged upstairs to my bedroom, and I noticed that (my auntie and uncle) where in the living room. Once in the bedroom I started cowering in a corner whilst my dad rained down repeated punches and kicks on me, I could hear my Nana screaming, but he continued relentlessly, I expected him to maybe, put me over his knee and slap my arse, but not this, as each punch landed I could literally feel my eye closing as the swelling was instant, I was rolled up like a little ball whilst he kicked me repeatedly, the last I can recall was receiving a blow to the side of my head, and a mighty flash, he knocked me unconscious.

I can’t recall how long it was before I come round, but I was in agony, I felt like ‘Elephant Man’ my right eye had swollen considerably and was closed shut, and I had severe bruising all over body arms and legs, my Nana was sat on the bed and was gently rubbing a warm cloth on my face and tending to my bruises not a word was said, but I felt so vulnerable lying there watching the tears roll down my Nana’s cheeks, knowing that I was the cause of all her distress.

I wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last child to receive a good hiding off his dad, but this felt so disproportionate, I expected to be punished for my misdemeanour, but not to be beaten up by a man who had earned his living ejecting drunkards from the nightclubs of sixties and seventies Liverpool and settling old scores with his fists, this man was supposed to be my protector and my saviour. I didn’t see my Dad for about a further twelve months following this incident, but our relationship thereafter was never the same. It later transpired that Liverpool Transport Police had awoken him and his wife at about 3am in the morning informing him of my detention in Taunton Police Station, and they had requested that he transfer £3.00 to Taunton Police to purchase my return ticket to Liverpool, as a result of this he and his wife had, had a massive argument, and it would appear that I had taken the full force of his anger. Many years later I asked my uncle and auntie why they did not intervene to stop him, and it was apparent that they had both carried this guilt around with them, since the incident, my auntie explained that they felt in a difficult position, as they did not feel it was their place to intervene, but had she have known the extent of the beating I was being subject too, she said she would have intervened, however she admitted that both her and my uncle were scared of my dad, and would have feared for their own safety had they intervened. I don’t and have never apportioned any blame to either of them or my Nana for the beating I took that day, yes, they were aware that he was extremely angry, but they had no idea that he was doing what he was, they thought that I may receive a slap but not a hiding, which in hindsight could have killed me.

It was about this time that reports came through that the Summerland leisure resort on the Isle of Man went up in flames. Up to 53 people died in the tragedy on 2 August 1973, and it is one of the worst British peacetime disasters involving a fire since 1929. I remember this incident had quite an effect on me, I can recall thinking that if my life had taken a different turn, I could have so easily been living in the Isle of Man now and knowing the lifestyle I lived, I may well have been one of the unfortunate victims of this tragedy. The graphic reports being shown on the ‘telly’ would show eyewitnesses claiming that there were “hundreds and hundreds of people evacuating the building across a footbridge which spanned the top of the promenade and then spilling out into the road”, One fireman spoke of his experiences stating that “he found a guy on a mezzanine floor, half-way between the basement and the fire floor, drunk as a coot. He didn't know what the hell was going on and he literally had to pick him up and drag him. Quite a few people were rescued unharmed. Sadly a lot were recovered dead and he had to help with some of the bodies. I was transfixed to these reports and was so relieved that my mum had since left the Isle of Man.

By 1975 my Mum had remarried and had recently moved from Halewood with my sister who was about eleven by now, and was living in Nesfield Street, which was off Sleepers Hill in Anfield. Her marriage had produced my youngest sister and the four of them settled in to their new life in Anfield. Life thereafter took on a semblance of normality, or at least what I perceived to be normality. I returned to School at Alsop and my Nan got a job in ‘Reece’s the Bakery’ in Great Homer Street. Often she would leave the house at 7.30am in time to start her shift at 8am.

I can recall her coming home and telling me about a lad who helped the milkman, deliver milk to her shop apparently he had just signed as a professional footballer for Blackburn FC. His name was John Bailey and he went on to have a very successful career with Everton FC. Talking recently of his time at Everton and particularly the closing of Bellfield (Everton’s Training Venue) he wrote :

"It is a sad day. You walk through them gates as we did this morning and you think about the players that have come through those gates. "When you think of the World Cup this was Brazil’s camp." Indeed, whilst Bellfield may now be behind the times in terms of the facilities, it was once regarded as one of the finest training facilities in English football. He added: "I will never forget my early days when I was at Blackburn Rovers as a young apprentice and coming to this place was like coming to a palace.” In them days at Blackburn we trained in a public park and when you come to places like this it is fantastic – it still is. "There are plenty of stories but I can’t really tell them! The dressing room was full of fun and banter - a great group of lads just like the lads from the 70s. Sometimes your clothes would be ripped up and end up in the toilet.” Monday morning and every morning you could not wait to get into training and have the crack with the lads.” It is unique and you will never get a training facility like it. It is like coming into a little cul-de-sac and everything is very homely. "I don’t know what the new training facility is going to be like but from all accounts it is going to be massive but here is compact and you know where everything is. It is a nice tight family atmosphere, just like the family I grew up with in the Everton district of Liverpool in the sixties and seventies”

Anyway back to my story, prior to leaving for work my Nan would call me repeatedly ensuring I was up and about before she would leave, once she had gone I would very often return to bed or curl up in front of the gas fire and go back to sleep, and take the day off school, unbeknown to my Nan. Many years later My Nan would recall these days, and tell me how difficult she found it leaving me of a morning, but she felt she had no alternative as money was extremely tight, and she was receiving no financial assistance off either of my parents, as a result she had given fraudulent information on her job application stating she was born in 1922, when she was actually born in 1912, she went on to explain that she had to do that in order to secure employment, her employers believed her to be 53 when she was in fact 63 at this time (about 1975) and of pensionable age. As tight as money was I never felt I went without. Periodically my Nan would receive a clothing grant off Social Services for me, which could be redeemed in a Local Authority Warehouse which was situated in Blackstock Street in the City Centre, I remember all the clothes they stocked where standard issue, and often left you open to ridicule off your peers, hence my ambivalence to attending school, but it also served as a good excuse not to attend school when the authorities questioned my absences, often they would listen sympathetically and attempt to resolve the matter. Very soon my reason for ‘Sagging’ school was taken away from me, when Social Services informed my Nan that my clothing grant could now be redeemed in Lewis’s in Liverpool City Centre.

I literally was like a ‘bee in a honey pot’ when I visited Lewis’s with my Nan to redeem the grant, and I can recall ‘rigging’ myself out in all the latest gear, such as a crombie, platform shoes, three star jumpers and electric blue flares, in addition to the latest school uniform. I was made up, and couldn’t wait to show off to my peers. I hadn’t, however forgotten my entrepreneurial attributes and after getting the grant off my Nan, I asked her to go to the café and wait for me, whilst I chose my clothes, which in hindsight I think she was pleased to comply with, once she was gone, I chose my clothes, ensuring there was still an amount left on the grant, (which in effect was a letter of authority off the Social Services Department stating a said amount) and I observed other people shopping, once I had identified a likely looking shopper, I approached them, and asked if I could purchase their chosen clothing, off my grant (which I showed them) and all I asked for in return was £10.00 cash, quite a few shoppers rebuffed my approach looking at me like I was ‘shit on their shoe’, however eventually somebody agreed and they were happy as their shopping totaled £25.00, and they paid me £10.00 a quick saving of £15.00 for the shopper and a ‘tenner’ in my pocket. With the £10.00 in my pocket and laden down with my shopping I found my Nan in the Café, and handed over the ‘tenner’ telling her that I had just found it on the stairs, she was absolutely ‘made up’ and quite tearful at my honesty and generosity, she unbelievably though considered handing it in to the store, explaining to me that somebody may have lost it, and it could be the difference between a family eating or not, for some strange reason I didn’t believe I could tell her the truth, and pleaded with her to keep the tenner, as she deserved it, In all honesty she didn’t need much persuasion, as in hindsight I believe the example she gave of the family eating or not, was on reflection us, that ‘tenner’ certainly made a difference to her ongoing financial difficulties that week.

I certainly wasn’t always so generous however and often contributed to her financial difficulties, I would ask her for 10p in the pretence of buying some sweets, but the reality is I was hooked on cigarettes having started smoking initially whilst in Plymouth, and was at the age of 11 smoking upwards of 10/15 cigarettes per day, my Nan would nearly always reply that she was ‘broke’, and had no money, so I would wait for an opportune moment, and when her back was turned, help myself to 10p out of her purse, which she would keep tucked down the side of the cushion on her chair. The 10p would enable me to buy a couple of ‘lucys’ (loose cigarettes) from Old Ma Hughes’s next to Gwladys Street or ‘Dick and Hazels’ on City Road in Walton. Purchasing loose cigarettes at this time was the norm as was selling cigarettes to children, oh how times have changed (and in this respect I certainly think for the better). On the rare occasion I was flush I would often buy 5 Park Drive for School days, which enabled me to have a cigarette on route to school, one at break time, one at lunch time, one at afternoon break, and finally one on the way home. Although it was very rare to have a ‘decent cig’ due to the fact that nearly all of my peers smoked and as soon as you lit up, cry’s of “first on yer” would ring out and before you knew it there was a queue of kids waiting to smoke your cig!! Occasionally you would tell them to piss off, but you had to box clever as tomorrow you could be in their queue. I can laugh now, but it really used to annoy me, when friends who didn’t smoke, would ask for a drag on your cig, thinking they looked ‘hard’ and as a result would leave a ‘ducks arse’ on your cig, which you could have sailed a ship on.

Cigarettes although relatively cheap at the time where certainly beyond my means, and I was hooked I needed money to feed my habit, nicking the odd 10p off my Nan wasn’t the solution, and I did feel bad afterwards, so I set about finding gainful employment, which appeared to be plentiful at the time, such notions of working time directives and health & safety directives didn’t appear high on the agenda of employers and it wasn’t long before I had acquired three jobs, after school.

The first job was straightforward at 5pm each weekday evening I would, go to certain shops on City Road, and put the metal grills over their shop windows, and each shop in return paid me about 50p a week. City Road at this time was full of shops, and I would put the grills over ‘Whelan’s the Newsagents, ‘Wilfs’ also a newsagent, the Woman’s clothing shop next door to Wilfs, Dick & Hazels a sweetshop and ‘Gingers’ the chandlers, so for about 20 minutes work each evening I would earn £2.50. I also worked on the Fruit & Veg van, (which was based in Linton Street) on a Saturday, this involved loading the van with Fresh Fruit and Veg and setting off to the estates in Norris Green and surrounding districts, and selling to regular customers. I really enjoyed this job and the banter with the customers, although it was hard work as I had to be in the warehouse at 7am and would often not get back until after 7pm all for the miserly sum of 75p plus any tips I made. Jack who drove the van was a lazy bastard, and would often leave me to run about the estate like a ‘blue arse fly’ whilst he sat in the cab reading his paper and chatting up all the pre pubescent girls on the estates. Although he wasn’t all-bad as he would stop off at my house on the way back to the warehouse whilst I dropped off a supply of fresh fruit and Veg for my Nan, in return for my silence as to the fiddles he was conducting, unbeknown to the owner of the Fruit and Veg business. My final job was a paperboy on a Sunday Morning for Mr. Whelan (who owned the Newsagents next door to Cassidy’s the bakers on City Road). I had to be in at 6.30am and as I really struggled to get up, I would often stay up all night, to ensure I was always on time. Again this was hard work, the canvas bag would be full of papers and supplements, and in truth I could hardly carry the ‘bloody thing’ but I prided myself on doing the job well, in the hope that Mr. Whelan would give me a bonus, but he never did, but I earned about 75p for three hours work, and a couple of free newspapers for my Nan (well they weren’t exactly free, they just happened to get posted by mistake to my house) so all in all including my tips I was earning about a fiver a week, which would generally keep me in cigarettes.

On a Sunday Night religiously my Nan would go to the Everton Supporters Club, with her best friend ‘Marge’ and ‘Wilf’ (yes the very same Wilf who owned the Newsagents) and on her way she would buy 20 Carlton Cigarettes, even though she did not smoke! Apparently it was the social thing to do at the time, and offer a cigarette to people in your company, it did however benefit me greatly. My Nan would return home from Everton Supporters Club, religiously at 11.30pm each Sunday Evening absolutely ‘pissed’ she would always deny that she was drunk, and inform me the following day that she was just tired! At the time it used to crack me up, as I would be engrossed in the BBC2 film, which started at 10.30pm each Sunday night, and invariably it would be of adult nature, however once I heard the key in the door I would hastily switch over (as I didn’t want my Nan thinking I was some sort of perv) she would literally roll down the hallway finally stopping at the Perspex door to the living room, she would rattle the door as she made her way in, with a silly grin on her face, and after dropping her handbag she would continue rolling to the outside toilet, where she would deposit the nights intake of Guinness. Whilst she was in the loo, I would take a handful of cigs from her handbag, and sit innocently waiting for her to roll back in. Then it would be time to gather her supplies for her, so she could go to bed, this included the bucket (in case she was caught short during the night) her radio, which she would leave on all night, a glass of water, to quell the thirst too much alcohol consumption would invariably bring in the morning, and of course her ‘Echo’ so she could read the obituary columns, and wonder why everyone in Liverpool died in alphabetical order, and finally her reading glasses, once I had deposited the said items in her bedroom, I would then have to literally push her up the stairs, as she was incapable of getting up without my assistance. I would then rush back down stairs to continue watching the film, only to find it had finished! Then I would hear a massive crash upstairs, and find my Nan snoring her ‘crust’ off on her bedroom floor, I would have to undress her and put her into bed, which wasn’t an easy thing to do for a 14 year old.

It was about this time that I was to revisit Colomendy once again; I had previously visited my brother when Liverpool Social Services sent him to Glan Alyn Boarding School for a year or so, but this time I was to be a guest of Liverpool Social Services at the annual ‘International Camp’ in the outward bound centre. Colomendy was built in 1939 by the National Camps Corporation, as a wartime refuge for Liverpool schoolchildren. The first children arrived in April 1940 from Dingle. After the war the camp became a chance for Liverpool schoolchildren to get their first taste of the countryside. There were problems though, in 1951, 150 boys rioted smashing crockery as a protest against the food in the camps. 
In March 1957 Liverpool Corporation bought Colomendy from the National Camps Corporation for £46,500. 

In May 1969 the residential Glan Alyn Secondary Education School was opened. The school closed in 1990 and its residential blocks became part of the main Colomendy camp.

I remember feeling really embarrassed as my Nan insisted in seeing me off on the coach, which left from Queens Square in Liverpool; it was an uneventful journey with about twenty other ‘disadvantaged’ Liverpool school kids. Upon arrival we were shown to our dormitories and assigned a bunk bed each, I remember sharing with a big fat lad whose name was Colin, he insisted on having the top bunk and initially I was happy to oblige. The ‘Foreigners’ would not be arriving until the following day and I recall being excited at the thought of meeting ‘real foreigners’ who spoke with a weird accent, I secretly hoped that I would find a foreigner who looked liked the presenter off TV’s Lift Off who was called ‘Ayshea’, at the time I thought she was Indian and she was absolutely stunning, I recall hoping that all foreign girls would look like her.

I now know that Ayshea was the stage name of Ayshea Brough. She was a British singer, model, and actress and television presenter, who was born in London on 12 November 1948. As a presenter of Lift Off, the children's pop show which ran on ITV from 1969 to 1974, she introduced current pop acts and also had her own singing slot, and was one of the few British Asians on television at that time. Well at least I was close she was British Asian. That first night was spent ‘sussing’ out the camp and what was on offer, the first problem I noticed was that there was nowhere to buy cigs, and we where not allowed out of the camp, however I did notice a pub on the way in just outside the camp, so I recall thinking that I would have to consider ways I could get out of the camp without being noticed. Following tea that first night (which didn’t appear much better than that served in 1951, which led to mini riots) at the dining hut which was pretty basic to say the least, we were informed that the tuck shop was open, I didn’t think they would sell cigs, but it was worth asking, the member of staff gave me a lecture on the perils of smoking and bluntly informed me that Cigarettes were not available, and that he would be watching me for the remainder of the week, so instead I bought two big bottles of Lemonade, which I shared with ‘Fat Colin’.

At about 3am that morning I awoke and initially I didn’t know where I was, but it soon became clear when, I heard sniffles and farts (memories of Butlins here) but worse was to come when I felt drops of what I thought was rain falling on my forehead, initially I couldn’t understand how the rain was getting in, as I was on the bottom bunk bed, then it dawned on me, ‘Fat Colin’ was pissing the bed, don’t ask how it had seeped down but believe me it did, with that I jumped out of bed, and dragged the snoring ‘Fat Colin’ out of his bed, I remember he fell with an almighty bump, which woke up the rest of the dormitory, and the member of staff who had earlier been staffing the tuck shop, poor ‘Fat Colin’ was lay on the Linoleum floor crying and I was stood there dripping in piss, the member of staff who was called ‘Alf’ was not happy and insisted I tell him what happened, I recounted my story and was told off for waking ‘Fat Colin’ the way that I did…. ‘Fat Colin’ was moved to the bottom bunk and I was told to sleep on the top bunk. Thankfully there was no further incidents that week regarding ‘Fat Colin’ and his incontinence, however I’m sure there was a rainbow over that bunk bed at the end of the week. The rest of that week I was to become the camp clown, much to the annoyance of ‘Alf’ the staff member (I don’t mean camp clown, I mean clown of the camp) ‘Fat Colin’ didn’t understand any of my jokes but he still pissed himself.

The following day the foreigners arrived and I recall being very disappointed as none of them looked liked Ayshea Brough, and most of them seemed just like the rest of us. The remainder of the week though was spent splashing about in the River Alyn and climbing the catwalk, a path up the side of a steep cliff by the Alyn. Not far away was the ‘Devils Gorge’ a largish cave mouth that had water in it, there was a footbridge that went across the top, and we were told that we couldn’t “march” across as the rhythm of the footsteps would make it collapse. I took it upon myself to shuffle across, swinging the footbridge from side to side, before I was apprehended by ‘Alf’ and told in no uncertain terms that if I continued I would be sent home. Then there was the walk up Moel Fammau. Moel Fammau is a famous mountain in North Wales visited by thousands of Liverpool school kids over the years, however at the time, I thought it was like climbing Everest.  I along with the foreigners and ‘Fat Colin’ was told that there was a chippy at the top, which certainly redoubled ‘Fat Colin’ efforts to reach the summit, prior to being told that he was in tears, saying he could not breath, (we had even started the climb at that point) so off we went, we trudged up the mountain only to discover that the chippy was merely the remains of a collapsed monument – however I do recall the views were great.

My lasting memories of that week was collecting money off the other kids and charging them an extra 20p to sneak out of the camp and purchase a supply of cigs from the pub, which was outside the camp. In the evening we would be given free time and I decided to use this time to get the cigs. Once the way was clear I hid in the trees that lined the driveway, and discreetly made my way out of the camp, I got to the pub unnoticed and breathed a sigh of relief as I entered, just as I was about to feed the cigarette machine I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned round only to be greeted by ‘Alf’ who was enjoying his night off, with some of his colleagues, he confiscated my money and escorted me back to the camp, and told me that I would be excluded from tomorrows activities, I felt embarrassed in front of my peers, so I told him to ‘Fuck Off’ and the following day I packed my bag and went AWOL returning home to Liverpool. Social Services never sent me on any more subsidised holidays after that.