It was now 1976 I was 15 and in my penultimate year at School, it was time to consider my career options, but I had no idea what I wanted to do. My brother had joined the Merchant Navy and was now an experienced seafarer having completed his ten weeks training at Gravesend in Kent. He had remained in care for most of his childhood, although his care episodes were punctuated with brief spells at My Uncle and Aunties in Trowbridge Street and for a while he lived with me and my Nan at Emery Street, but his often unpredictable and violent behaviour, always led to him returning to the care of Social Services, I often wondered why Paul was as unpredictable and violent as he was, and couldn’t understand why he had such a ‘chip on his shoulder’.

I can remember when he joined the ‘Merch’ he was living at Emery Street and had gone to Gravesend to undertake his Merchant Navy Training for ten weeks, however a week or so later he returned home, I initially suspected his violent moods and aggression had led to him being ‘kicked out’ but it transpired the training school was closed for a week. I pissed myself laughing at his crude haircut, and paid the price with a good hiding. However I was fascinated with his stories of the journey to Gravesend Station in Kent and the man in the uniform with gold stripes who had herded him and other new recruits into a blue van with the words ‘National Sea Training School’ he went on “After a short journey an ominous looking building loomed up at the end of a long road”. 

To him he viewed it as just another placement, having lived in various placements throughout his childhood, however driving through that entrance was the day he no longer saw life as an immature young scally, but was thrust into a life of ‘davits’ ‘lifeboats’ and ‘compass points’, all around were lads dressed in black battle dress staring at the new trainees. Having collected his ‘kit’ and bedding, it was time to visit ‘the Sweeney’, I can recall him telling me “that he cut his hair quicker than a fuckin Apache Indian” hence his scalping which I found so hilarious after his Gilbert O’Sullivan type hairstyle, which he had left with a week earlier. He said he quickly settled into the daily routines and more or less followed rules and regulations. Soon he was proud to become just another ‘peanut’ the days passed into weeks and life became easier, new lads arrived each week and soon he became an  ‘old hand’. My brother would often talk about the old bosun who taught the recruits’ lifeboat skills “Mighty Mouse” the recruits called him. Life at Gravesend he recalls was hard but eventually he successfully completed his training and returned to Liverpool, with a view to finding a deep-sea voyage at the ‘Pool’

I was intrigued and for the first time considered a career in the ‘Merchant Navy’ although I was a little concerned about the radical haircut. Liverpool was built on its association with the sea, the Mersey was the gateway to the rest of the world and generations of ‘Scousers’ had sailed through the Mersey Gateway, ploughing the oceans of the world and bringing wealth to the nation.

The nineteenth and twentieth centuries had saw the pinnacle of Liverpool’s maritime history also its demise; fifty years ago Britain had the largest Merchant fleet the world had ever seen and the youth of Liverpool stood in line to follow their father’s, grandfather’s and great grandfather’s into that proud profession which gave them their identity as seamen in the British Merchant Navy. My Granddad, My Dad and now my Brother had all joined the Merchant Navy They started as young men and served in every branch of the industry, from Deck Boy to Master; three months at a National Sea Training School and they joined their first ship, they had a basic knowledge, from then on it was learn as you go and learn they did, coached by those who had joined before them. It was a proud profession with skills developed over hundreds of years; young seamen were multi-skilled tradesmen who never got the recognition they deserved, and so my progression seemed a formality, although I was aware that you had to undertake an entrance exam and an Interview prior to receiving the documentation that would take you to Gravesend and the ‘National Sea Training School’. For the first time I actually gave credence to my academic studies and made a concerted effort to attend school on a regular basis, with a view to attaining whatever qualifications would enhance my chances of selection for the ‘Merch’.

Throughout my childhood I had always been keen on Art & Design, and would endeavour to attend school whenever I had this subject, I suspected if their was one lesson where I could attain an ‘O Level’ then it would be Art. One day when in an Art Lesson with a teacher called ‘Mr. Stirrup’ I made the mistake of shuffling my chair, when he was talking, he literally ran over to where I was seated and kicked the chair from beneath me, leaving me unceremoniously sat on my ‘arse’ on the floor with quite a bruised ego, much to the stifled giggles of my peers, I got up to my feet and told him to ‘fuck off’ and he just ‘lost it’ he grabbed hold of my hair and swung me round and pushed me over his desk and kicked me, whilst I was falling, I couldn’t believe this was happening, and quickly jumped to my feet, minus a clump of hair which was on the floor, I made a threat towards him, and left the classroom. My first thought was to find ‘Our Paul’ with a view to the two of us sorting this ‘Twat’ out, but I realised this wasn’t practical as it could be months before I saw my brother again, I returned home disconsolate, but hell bent on revenge, I knew my Nan would be upset, and would represent me at School, however her 5’ frame, wouldn’t exactly strike fear into this bully of a teacher. When I got home my auntie Carole was there and immediately she knew something had happened, before I had finished telling her, she had her coat on and was out of the door, I quickly followed her, with my Nan’s protestations ringing in my ears, ‘It’ll be okay’, I said as I followed ‘Our Carole’ to the school, I felt so proud that I had somebody ‘fighting my corner’ and she instantly became my heroine for life. She marched into the School, and dispensing with school etiquette, (there was no visit to the headmasters office) she just marched into the Art Room, and punched the startled Mr. Stirrup on the nose nearly knocking him out, before informing him that if there was any further incidents involving him, she would be back, with that she winked at me, and we both left. Justice I felt had been done. Strangely I never had a problem with Mr. Stirrup after this incident and I would go as far, as to say that he was a major factor in me attaining my CSE Grade one in Art (although I suspect if  ‘Our Carole’ had, have followed School etiquette he would have been an unemployed teacher, such was the level of his disproportionate violence that day) and I think he realised that.

1976 and Britain experienced one of the hottest summers on record, I was envious as lots of my friends had bikes, and as such they were often not around as they would go off cycling for the day. So you can imagine my surprise one day when I turned up at home, and my Nan was stood there grinning like a Cheshire Cat, “what’s up with you” I asked, “go into the parlour and you will see” my Nan replied, so I trudged into the parlour expecting a load of Cream Cakes and pies that she would often bring home from work along with tubs of ‘Waxy tasting Devon Cream’ but I was amazed to see a black bike, “whose is that”, I asked, my Nan stood their smiling like the cat who had got the cream, “it’s yours” she said “I have been paying off it at the second hand shop”, I really was overcome with emotion, I knew her finances were tight so I had given up on ever owning a bike, I couldn’t believe that this Black Bike was mine, I was ecstatic. That long hot summer of 76’ was spent riding everywhere; I had no fear, and would stay up all night (as I could never get up early) and would leave the house at about 6am complete with my packed lunch and go off for the day. I recall one day me, and my mate Neil Fairclough (Fairy) decided to cycle to Colomendy and back, so off we went to the Pier Head, boarded the ferry to Birkenhead, and cycled for the rest of the day, however we gave up at Mold as we were both knackered, and following our packed lunch and a cig, we cycled back home a combined distance of some fifty miles, and as I was a podgy little kid (or as ‘my brother would say “A fat little Bastard”) that took some doing.

The remainder of that Summer would be spent in Walton Hall Park, along with my uncle & auntie, and their sons (my cousins), they would visit every Sunday, and my Nan would often threaten to tell my uncle of any mischief, I may have been up to during that week, but overall I looked upon my uncle and auntie as an older Brother and Sister and looked forward to their visits and winding both ‘Little Neil’ and ‘Stephen’ up, and then going back home with them to there house in ‘Trowbridge Street’. It was a standing joke that Stephen, who must have been about three at this time, could not or would not speak, so it was some surprise one day, when he suddenly piped up “dut the durtains de duns detting in dy duckin eyes” (Which loosely translated meant “Shut The Curtains the Sun is getting in my Fucking Eyes”) most kids first words are ‘mama’ or ‘dada’, but not Stephen, who to this day has never lived that down.

1976 saw the advent of Punk Music, as Gary Glitter left the Glitter Band, Punk music began to grow, the fashion of safety pins, studs, pierced faces, Mohican haircuts and torn jackets also began to emerge this year.  Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood opened a shop called ‘Sex’ selling specially made punk t-shirts. These frequently got their wearers into trouble with the police due to their shocking and controversial images. Punk was a reaction against all things Hippie: long hair, love of nature, love of everybody, peace. Punk was described as the most shocking youth movement the world had ever seen: loud, angry, spitting, universal disgust. It was also a reaction against a huge rise in unemployment and inflation. The Punk style or music never really interested me, however I did buy a t-shirt which proclaimed ‘The Queen is a Twat’ although once I put it in the wash I never saw it again, and to be honest I never really missed it. Punk Culture did however seemed to encourage youth rebellion, and as I did not need much encouragement I became more rebellious towards anyone who I viewed as authoritarian be it my Nan or my schoolteachers.

One day I had been out on my bike and nipped in to my house to get a drink, leaving my bike outside, when I returned, my bike had gone…. Some bastard had stolen it, I searched high and low but never found it, I was gutted as I knew the chances of replacing it were nil, and I felt so upset for my Nan, who had scrimped and saved often going without herself, to purchase that bike, I really was upset. So I took it upon myself to steal another bike, I know now that it was wrong, and I may well have inflicted the same level of hurt upon someone else, but I wasn’t thinking rationally and the media was full of rebellious anarchy particularly against those who ‘had it’ so I justified my reasoning, by making the decision to travel to ‘affluent’ Formby to steal a bike. One night following school Neil Fairclough and myself, dressed in black clothes complete with gloves and balaclavas, caught a train from ‘Bankhall Station’ to Formby, with the sole intention of acquiring a bike. I can recall it was a cold winters night, as we walked from the station to the nearest housing estate we could find. The houses in Formby were predominantly detached, and it was apparent these people had a ‘few bob’, we stalked the new housing estates for a likely target, until we seen a garage door had been left open, with a big shiny new racer there for the taking. We agreed that Neil would keep ‘Dixie’ whilst I stole the bike, and rode off, agreeing to meet Neil at the train station. So off I went towards the garage, I started having second thoughts, and feeling guilty, but I had committed myself now, and I had to do it, if I was to keep face with my peer group, I was literally shitting myself as I quietly wheeled the bike away, before running down the road with it. At the end of the road I jumped on it and peddled as fast as my legs could take me towards the station, I was terrified suspecting every car that went past would be the owner searching for his bike, but I eventually reached the station, Neil had not arrived at the station as yet, so I made myself and the bike discreet in the shadows whilst I waited for him, after what seemed an eternity he turned up, and we both admired the ‘Raleigh Racer’ I had stolen. On the train journey back to Liverpool, I made the decision to give the bike to Neil, I didn’t want it, I felt guilty at what I had done, and had not considered how I would explain it to my Nan, I was rebellious but I wasn’t a thief, so much to his delight I handed the bike over, wanting no further part. It is strange how all these years later recalling this incident, I still feel guilty, and try to explain it off through teenage angst or a major injustice that my bike was stolen, however I accept it was part of growing up and a valuable lesson learnt, because I have never stole anything since, well nearly never.

Another incident, which occurred with my mate Neil, so nearly ended in tragedy. One day we made the decision to travel to Rhyl in North Wales but we knew if we had asked our parents permission, they would have said no, so I told my Nan I was going with Neil’s mum and he told his mum we were going with my Nan, with that off we went. The 60s and 70s was the heyday for the North Wales coastal town. Nobody went abroad because it was too expensive - people used to visit Rhyl in there hundreds every day. Rhyl at this time was a typical British seaside resort. It was not as brash as Blackpool and livelier than Southport with the added bonus of beautiful scenery nearby. Once in Rhyl, Neil and myself would go on the trampolines, and then spend time in the arcades, before strolling up to the pleasure beach, catching the Punch and Judy show in front of the clock on the way. On this particular day Neil had brought a duffle bag with him, which contained our packed lunch and flask, little did we realise that this duffle bag would save Neils life. We constantly bickered all day as to whose turn it was to carry the bag, with Neil conceding and putting the bag over his shoulder. We strolled around the fair, and I can recall Neil being transfixed by a giant teddy bear, which was a star prize on one of the stalls, he just stood there like a ‘wally’ amazed at the sheer size of this bear (it must have been about 6ft tall) before I knew it, he had snatched this bear and was off on his toes, “oh shit” I thought as he dashed away from the fair with this FUCKING BIG TEDDY BEAR, I ran after him, as did the stall holder and half a dozen of his entourage, I was really concerned for our safety, should they catch us as I knew the ‘Fair boys’ had quite a fearsome reputation, as we left the fair complex, Neil threw the teddy towards me, and I just side swiped it and carried on running as fast as my legs would carry me, I turned to see the stall holder retrieve his teddy bear and give up the chase, as I momentarily turned I heard a dull thud, and turned around and seen Neil fly into the air in what seemed like slow motion, as he was hit full on by a passing car, he must have traveled about six foot in the air before coming to rest on the main road, with an almighty bang, initially I panicked and didn’t know what to do, so I carried on running, again I was terrified, so many thoughts flew through my head, “oh shit, he’s dead”, “My Nan will kill me”, “the fair boys are going to catch us” how am I going to get home, he’s got the tickets” “all for a six foot stupid fucking teddy bear” eventually I stopped running and returned to Neil who was in quite a bad state, a crowd had gathered and I could hear Police and Ambulance sirens in the distance, the Police arrived as Neil was being stretchered into the Ambulance, I joined him in the Ambulance as we sped off to Rhyl General, whilst in the Ambulance Neil came round but it was apparent he was in agony. The Ambulance ‘fella’ stated that the duffle bag that Neil had been carrying had acted like a pillow and cushioned his fall, which in his opinion had saved his life such was the impact at which he had been hit. Once at the Hospital, I quietly told Neil to say nothing to anyone and just moan, if he were asked a question, I would deal with the Police. Shortly afterwards Neil was led off to a cubicle by the nurses, whilst a copper took me to a side room for questioning, I told him that we were staying at a nearby camp site with our parents and had traveled into Rhyl for the day with our parents who were shopping in town, this appeared to appease him, for the time being, along with the false names I gave him. I later joined Neil who had broken his leg, and told him we had to get away as soon as we could, shortly afterwards Neil was given a pair of crutches and we were both told to wait in a side room, whilst the Police made enquiries. As soon as we could we left the hospital, unbeknown to anyone and made our way to the train station, and safely returned to Liverpool without further incident. I never did find out how Neil explained his broken leg to his Mum and thankfully he never suffered any ill effects to the accident, which so easily could have been fatal, had it not been for that duffle bag.

As the street party at Walton Church heralded in the New Year of 1977, I knew that this was going to be a definitive year for me, I was due to leave School in June and couldn’t wait to start earning a proper wage, it would also mean I was ‘free’ of the watchful eye of Social Services, who still played a monitoring role in my life (although it was minimal, I still found their involvement intrusive). 1977 was the Queens Silver Jubilee Year and plans were afoot in the community to have massive street parties and celebrations, so there was plenty to look forward too. Disco fashion peaked with the release of Saturday Night Fever. Shiny white polyester pants shot off the shelves like hot cakes. A health scare suggesting that cotton produced skin allergies led to more and more polyester double knit items being bought. Women were copying Farrah Fawcett's highly popular bouffant hairstyle. The Naval uniform was the inspiration for the bellbottoms of the 60s. Then came something that looked uncannily similar but there were subtle differences. Flares evolved from the radical bellbottom style that had been promoted by hippies. They were flared from the knee down and had a more subtle shape. The circumference at the hem was much smaller than on bellbottoms Along with skin-tight disco wear, Flared Trousers remained exceedingly popular for the rest of the decade. 

So it was that every Wednesday Night I would visit ‘Walton Trades and Labour Club’ for the weekly disco in my brand new Electric Blue flares complete with high waist band, whilst in the disco, whispers could be heard that the ‘Kirkby’ gangs were outside waiting for a scrap, but invariably it would come to nothing.

Walton Trades & Labour Club provided me with my first experience of ‘The Nightlife’, which my dad had been so fond of, and I could see why, I was transfixed with the disco lights and the loud booming music, and amazed at how the DJ was always revered by the prettiest girls, little did I know a seed was being planted. Saturday Night Fever was the film that launched the disco craze on an unsuspecting public. John Travolta plays Tony Manero who is stuck in a dead end job but becomes Brooklyn's Disco King at the weekends. However he starts to question his narrow-minded view of women and the world. The film boasted a memorable soundtrack featuring classic hits from the Bee Gees, Tavares, and KC and the Sunshine Band. Although most lads my age at the time wouldn’t admit it, we all wanted to be ‘Tony Manero’ and I can still recall strutting up Goodison Road thinking I was John Travolta, following an under age drinking session in the Netley on Walton Road.

I remember driving family members mad with my impersonation of the Brand New trimphones. The Trimphone, British Telecom's first luxury phone, appeared with push buttons for the first time this year. It was available in three colours, two-tone blue, green and ivory and was the coolest thing to have at your bedside. The name 'Trim' is apparently an acronym of 'Tone Ringer Illuminated Model'. My Nan had been a BT Customer for years and following the introduction of the trimphone; she was given one by BT for no extra cost, it certainly was the ‘must have gadget of the day’ however my constant mimicking of its distinctive ring tone drove my poor Nan to distraction, and eventually led to her requesting her conventional phone back from BT.

Paul by now was well established in the Merchant Navy, and had completed several Deep Sea trips, all around the world. I actually used to look forward to him returning home from these trips with endless stories of foreign shores and the mischief he got up to. Following one particular trip about this time I recall my Nan getting a telegram, stating that he had been hospitalised in Montevideo in Uruguay, following a burst ulcer, It was a worrying time for everyone, particularly as he was so far away, but thankfully he would return unscathed, however that burst ulcer was to be a sign of his incessant drinking habits which he had seemed to acquire whilst in the Merchant Navy. On his return home he would bring loads of spirits and literally thousands of crates of Tennents Lager’ with its distinctive can featuring a scantily clad girl on each one. Often Paul would dock at Seaforth Container base, and after paying off the Dock Police, the crew would pilfer the ship, for allsorts of goodies such as alcohol, cigarettes, meat, foodstuffs and bric a brac from foreign shores, Emery Street was like an Aladdin’s cave. It was about this time that I had my first experience with drugs, I recall Paul inviting me back to his ship, which was docked at Seaforth, and going to his cabin, shortly afterwards a few of his mates joined us, and started rolling up the bedding and placing it against the door, I wondered what they were doing, then was surprised when ‘our Paul’ started handing out ‘spliffs’ to everyone, being naïve I shit myself and wanted no part of this, and was genuinely shit scared, I had no knowledge of drugs other than they were highly addictive. I resisted Paul’s attempts to encourage me to join him, and thought he looked a ‘right dickhead’, sat there deeply inhaling on these cigs with a pungent smell, but I was intrigued.

However more intriguing was the amount of ‘Dirty Women’ that seemed to be plentiful onboard, naked women were openly strolling about the crews quarters, and I mean ‘women’ not young girls, I know now that these were the girls that worked the Dock Road area of Liverpool, and had been plying their trade for centuries, and believe me, some looked like they had been there for centuries. Paul suggested ‘I lose my cherry’ with one of these women and introduced me to ‘Mary’ whilst he left us alone in one of the cabins. Mary must have been about forty five, and had a mouth that represented a Steinway Piano, complete with bleached blonde hair, she ‘fuckin’ terrified me, as she stood there and undressed, revealing a couple of pancakes stuck to her chest which resembled Slime, this green gunk could be bought in small plastic pots from any newsagent in the Summer of 1977, and I wondered why she had Pink Slime where her tits should have been, then I caught site of her nipples and realised that the slime was indeed her tits, whilst she was removing her skirt, I made my excuses and left, and had serious doubts about joining up to this whole new world called the ‘Merchant Navy’.

However after listening to Pauls tales and seeing just how much money he would have I was determined that a career in The Merchant Navy was for me. I recall Paul telling me, following a trip to Australia about the resident band that he had enjoyed six months with, and the mischief that he Tommy, Lionel, Milan, Wally, Billy and Ronnie had got up to and he showed me photographs of his new friends and gave me loads of CD’s, his new friends only turned out to be a group called the ‘Commodores’ fronted by Lionel Richie. So as the summer of ‘77’ beckoned I applied to join the Merchant Navy, and was delighted to receive a date for an interview and test at the ‘Pool’. The letter stated I had to be escorted to interview by one of my parents, so I asked my Mum to come with me I literally took the letter to its word thinking that I HAD to take a parent with me to interview, that is why I asked my Mum, and not my Nan, although in hindsight my Nan was always my parent and guardian, she must have been hurt that I didn’t ask her, but I was determined to pass selection and if the letter said ‘Parent’ then so be it. I flew through the aptitude test with ease and was extremely confident that my selection was all but a formality, I was asked to wait in a small waiting room until the interviewer was ready for me, and before I had barely sat down, I was called in for my interview, in no time at all the interview was over and I was told that I would hear in due course. I sailed through my CSES’S at school and got reasonable grades in the exams that I sat, I felt no pressure taking my exams, because as far as I was concerned my future was mapped out I would join the ‘Merch’ and travel the world, I had no anxieties as I waited for that elusive acceptance letter. Eventually it arrived and I opened it with nervous trepidation, and as I read it, I felt as though my world had ended, I had been ‘rejected’, the letter went on to encourage me to try again next year, it stated that I had passed the aptitude test, but the interviewer had felt I was too ‘arrogant’ and ‘cocky’ and suggested that I apply next year when I may have grown up a little. ‘Cheeky Bastard’ I thought, I’m not arrogant.

I was due to leave School soon and had no idea what I was going to do now. I would visit the Careers office in Crosshall Street and look for appropriate jobs, but I honestly did not have a clue what I wanted to do. During one of these visits a career officer suggested that I register with a company in Kirkby who were offering tiling apprenticeships, I had never been handy and was absolutely rubbish at DIY (I still am) but I wanted to work and earn a wage, to help my Nan so any offer of work was acceptable. I duly registered and within a fortnight my application was accepted and it was all arranged that I would start my working life as an apprentice tiler in July 1977.

June 7th 1977 heralded the start of celebrations for the Queens Silver Jubilee More than one million people lined the streets of London to watch the Royal Family travel to St Paul's Cathedral and across Britain millions of people tuned in to watch events on television and many celebrated with their own street parties. Roads were quiet and many took the day off work. In contrast to the celebrations the punk band the Sex Pistols sailed down the Thames on Jubilee Day playing their controversial version of "God save the Queen". The group was arrested as they left the boat but had achieved their aim of distracting people from the main celebrations. Radio stations were banned from playing the single but it still managed to reach number two in the charts. I think most 16 and 17 year olds bought the record at the time (even though it was crap) as a sign of rebellion I bought it from Creases in County Road not because I liked it, I just bought it because it was contentious. The parties went on for about 24 hours. I went to a Street Party in Linton Street, which is off Goodison Road and it must have started at about 11am with the traditional row of jelly filled tables and a radiogram for the kids, but by 6pm a live group had wired themselves into the street lamposts (I suspect) and played Beatles songs and such like, this aligned to the radiogram made for a very lively party which went on all night.