Fun and Games 1

Through the fifties school took up most of our day, but that left plenty of time for us to seek amusement elsewhere, and Norwich gave us plenty of opportunity. The first instinct for most of us during our school days was to head for our inevitable meeting place - "The Rec". For the Mile Cross estate this was Sloughbottom Park, a large area of well organised parkland consisting of two halves, each big enough for three football pitches, or two cricket, with the raised middle section containing four tennis courts, and an imposing Pavilion. For the last two or three years of my school days it seemed that every daylight hour not spent at school, was spent on the park. In the summer we played cricket, in the winter football, and made up teams from a wide variety of boys, some of whom were school friends, some of whom were not seen, and not known, except on the Rec. These names are lodged in my diaries of the time, a roll call of exotic ghosts from a lifetime ago: a few that I still see in the street occasionally; most I haven't seen since that last furious game was played at the end of school life, and work began; some I don't even remember; but all of them were a part of my life, in that glorious period of freedom at childhood's end, before real life rudely awakened us. Every person must have his own roll call of comrades from childhood, sometimes only dimly remembered, but often exotically named - mine goes like this: Rev, Woody, Homer, China, Jeff, Curly, Blacky, Jinner, Milo, Bishie, Doofer, Jumbo, Yogi, and many unrecorded others who lurk in the early pages of our book of life.

Our games were taken seriously and played hard; equipment was basic, but adequate. We sometimes could utilise the proper goals, unless the Parky, the inevitable "Enoch" objected, in which case, a pair of trees, or a pile of jumpers would suffice. We had usually a couple of real leather footballs to pick from, and for cricket a couple of bats and one set of stumps. "China" insisted on being wicketkeeper and had a regulation set of gloves to back up his claim, so we deferred to his request, especially as he was useless at everything else. We were very competitive, and tempers sometimes got frayed, but there was always a constant flux of players appearing as if telepathically summoned - we never made arrangements, but somehow we all found our way there, and there was always a place for everyone.

While football and cricket were largely communal sports, a smaller group of us, mainly school friends, would sometimes play tennis on the courts, or, on wet days, table tennis at the house of the one member with a tennis table.

But even the Rec couldn't take care of all our energy, and during the summer we would spend long days at Lakenham swimming baths. This would mean a quick bike ride to Lakenham, a swoop down Long John Hill, over the crossroads and under the railway bridge, then sharp left to the baths. They consisted of a full sized swimming pool enclosed by wooden changing huts, with a canteen at one end, and a clock tower that also showed the temperature. This was the first thing we saw and would range between 54 and 78, 54 being very cold, but never cold enough to stop us going in, and the seventies meaning that we would probably spend some hours there. During the summer holidays we would possibly visit every day: we would meet all our friends there, and girls, and the attraction of jumping into sparkling blue water, never palled. 

On some days our swimming would be in the River Wensum at the Eagle Swimming Baths. This was a large oblong constructed inlet, in the Wensum a hundred yards downstream from Mile Cross Bridge, with a rickety wooden building which served as changing rooms for boys and girls. The inlet itself was also separated into two sections for the sexes, and was quite small, mainly intended for younger children I think, but did afford the chance of a swim, although the reeds in the river proper, and the increasing pollution at that time, meant it was mainly a chance to be immersed in very cold water on a hot day, and never challenged Lakenham as the swimming centre of choice. 

If for any reason any of these options didn't appeal we always had our bikes, which were as essential, and natural to us as any of our western heroes on their horse. My first bike was an old upright beast, bought for me by my Uncle George, from Mayhew's Cycles at the corner of West End Street and Nelson Street around 1950. The shop is still there today, opposite what is now "The Fat Cat", and still selling cycles. This lasted me for some years until, at what would have been for them great expense, my parents bought me a brand new racing bike, a green Hercules " Harlequin", which served me for many years, and remains probably the finest present I've ever had. On one occasion I took off with my cousin for an afternoon ride, which took us to Yarmouth, Gorleston and Lowestoft on a memorable round trip of sixty miles; on another golden afternoon, four of us set out for a day in Yarmouth, and completed the ride in 75 minutes. We then sat on the front and ate our sandwiches, before walking to the fun fair, exploring every arcade on the way, working my way through the 7/1d I took with me. We came home much more sedately and took 2 hours, after what had proved a perfect day. 

My brother mike topped all our efforts though with an epic ride:

Mike and three other friends decided to cycle to Southend to see Norwich play in April 1951. His friends were leaving at about 6am, but Mike decided he needed longer, and said he would set off at 4, and they could meet up along the way. On a cold, damp morning, in total darkness he left Adelaide Street with his sandwiches in his saddlebag, and his ultra cool drinking flask with the plastic straw that I always admired, attached to the handlebars, en route to the wilds of Essex. He frequently had to stop to read the signposts with his front lamp, but ploughed on undaunted, even though there was no sign of his friends. He told me later that he had never been so tired, and at one stage ran into the kerb on the Rayleigh by-pass, and fell off. He persevered though, and arrived at Southend about midday, but there was no sign of his friends; he later discovered they had got as far as Cringleford, suffered a puncture, and gave up the idea, leaving Mike to fend for himself. The problem with that was that they had the tickets and information about the nights lodgings in Ipswich, and Mike had no idea of the plan that had been made for after the match. He watched Norwich win 2-0, then set out, again in the dark and rain for Ipswich, where he somehow talked himself into the YMCA for the night. The next morning, tired and sore, he flogged his aching frame back to Norwich to the great relief of my parents, and the sheepish looks of his less resolute friends, as he airily recounted the details of his epic journey.

Wrestling

Alongside all the physical activity that took so much of our time, there was still the entertainment provided by the sporting life of Norwich, and which I sampled in a serious, but casual way that is no longer possible in this high tech, high cost world. On Saturday nights during the season we could wander down to the Corn Hall in Exchange Street and watch wrestling. My friend and I would sit at the back, on piled up tables and desks, removed from the main commercial business of the hall earlier in the day, and piled round the edges. The cavernous, smoke filled hall had the regulation square ring erected in the middle of the floor, with powerful overhead lights flooding the stage, which was surrounded by fold up chairs for the main patrons. The compere, ‘Tiny’ Carr, was an extraordinary, bulbous little man, bursting out of his stained and shiny dress suit, and announcing the acts in the time honoured manner of fight announcers everywhere, up to the present day, by bellowing in his corncrake voice "Ladeeeeees an' Gennlemen", followed by the exotic titles bestowed upon the fighters by promoters. The first I saw was a large, well muscled negro fighter, probably from Birmingham or Notting Hill, labouring under the apellation "Masambula - The African Witchdoctor", who came into the ring dressed in native finery and feathers, and celebrated his victories with a legendary headstand on the corner post. He was one of the first great stars of the post war boxing boom, and was in the first years of a long career when I was lucky enough to see him.

The preliminary fights, featuring lightweight fighters, were genuine bouts of skill, as the quick, elusive athletes went through all the classic moves and holds in an impressive display of strength and technique, that we recognised as the real thing, compared to the often farcical displays at the top of the bill when the heavyweights made their appearance. Although some of the heavyweights were the real thing, many of them were just very large men with no wrestling ability beyond a few basic moves, who performed in a choreographed charade with a genuine wrestler like the previously mentioned Masambula, who carried them through three laborious rounds composed of much grunting and sweating, fake violence and dramatic posturing, until the carefully composed, dramatic conclusion. We loved it all, the fake and the real, and saw much real sport amongst the showbiz elements, and were well able, even at that age, to distinguish between the two.

Speedway

Another Saturday night's attraction, according to the season, was of course the legendary "Firs". On Saturday nights during the summer I could stand outside my back door in Mile Cross and hear the muted snarl from The Firs a couple of miles away, but more often than not, I would be there in person. My abiding memory of arriving there on a warm summer evening would be wandering around for a viewing spot while a scratched 78 of Slim Whitman singing "Rose Marie" boomed out through the tannoys. They probably played other records, but that is the song that inevitably brings memories of The Firs flooding back. Occasionally we would stand by the pits, which were at the side of the grandstand, where we could watch the bikes being prepared, and which also had a close up of the starting line. The start was dramatic, as the tape lifted, and four bikes surged forward, desperate for the advantage at the crucial first bend; sometimes in their eagerness, or inexperience, giving too much throttle, with the result that the front wheel would lift dramatically, like a rearing horse, wonderful to see from our point of view, but disastrous for the rider who lost valuable yards. Despite the excitement of this spot, we usually stood at the opposite side of the circuit, in the middle of the straight, facing the stand. Most adult spectators stood on the raked steps away from the fence, but the rest of us got close to the action down by the fence. This gave us the advantage of being close to the action, but also meant that as the riders came sliding round the bend, we had to duck behind the fence, as a spray of hot cinders rattled the boards and showered the first few rows. On one occasion I had the bright idea of ducking down and putting my eye to a knot hole, with the inevitable result that I spent the rest of the evening with a red and inflamed eye filled with grit. A better idea was to wear a pair of plastic goggles with fur round the edges, aviator goggles left behind by the Americans, which always seemed to be available somewhere in the neighbourhood, and which at least protected our eyes, although our faces were still stung by the cinders.

I was there during the Golden Age of the mid to late fifties when the mainstay of the Stars team was the leathery Australian Aub Lawson; diminuative Billy Bales, who I once saw plunge head first into the fence on the back straight, taking out a whole row of boards in the process, and being stretchered away unconscious; and the bespectacled and unassuming looking Phil Clarke. These were the solid core of the team who would put together the lesser, but vital, points tallies behind the 12 point superstars. Ove Fundin was the Stars hero in those days, and probably the greatest rider of them all, although my favourite was Peter Craven, a curly haired urchin with a cheeky grin, who rode with what seemed like a reckless panache and daring that was breathtaking. He died on the track before he was thirty, a sad end that, nevertheless seemed inevitable to those of us who had witnessed, and marvelled at, his outrageous overtaking technique.

One of my greatest nights at The firs was Wednesday 21st of August 1957 when the best riders in the country competed for the "Pride of the East" cup. The last race of the evening was the line up of a lifetime with Ove Fundin, Peter Craven and Barry Briggs on 11points and Ken McKinley on 12. Peter Craven got a good lead but was somehow overtaken by Fundin and Briggs, which meant that Fundin won the cup, with Briggs second and Craven third. One month later in the World Championships at Wembly the same three took the top three places, with this time Briggs coming out top. This meant that on that magical summer night at The Firs I had seen the three greatest riders in the world, three consecutive World champions from 1955, 56 and 57 fight it out over one night, and ultimately one race, for the prestigious "Pride of the East" trophy. In the speedway world of the fifties, The Firs was truly "The Theatre of Dreams". 

We sometimes had alternate events at the Firs, such as stock car racing, always great fun; and on one bizarre evening an attempt to introduce American "Sulky" racing to a bemused and generally indifferent Norwich public. The event consisted of 4 light chairs with riders, being pulled round the track by thoroughbred horses, in what was supposed to be a race, but was conducted at such a sedate trot that it seemed completely irrelevant, despite the frantic attempts to generate some excitement by the commentator, as to who finally ambled over the line first. I'm sure we missed the finer points, but to the best of my knowledge it was an experiment never repeated.

The Firs for me will always be summer nights with Slim Whitman singing, the smell of the burning fuel, and the hot cinders spraying the crowd as the engines screamed, and the crowd roared, while the leather clad heroes broadsided their way into history, and irremovable memory.

Football

Before the exciting nights though, we had the afternoons at Carrow Road. Carrow Road is as synonymous with Norwich as Old Trafford and Anfield are with their own cities, and has been part of the Norwich fabric for 75 years. Although my father remembered games at the Nest on Rosary Road, and told me stories of its terrifyingly precipitous terraces, for most Norwich people Carrow Road is the home of football, and it was there I had all my early experiences of the game. They were a lowly Third Division (South) side when I first knew them, but a well respected little team with a good ground and a healthy fan base. The heroes were the seemingly ageless Ron Ashman, who over a 15 year spell went from centre forward, to the midfield, then full back, and finally played as a sweeper, long before Beckenbauer invented the role in the mid sixties. Ashman is to my mind one of the great, unsung stars of Norwich football and deserves to be honoured with the greatest of them. Johnny Gavin and Ralph Hunt took the headlines in those days as the greatest goalscorers in Norwich history. Gavin was a small dynamo of a player, with a broken nose and waved slicked down hair, who could unleash an explosive, sweetly struck shot from any angle and was a constant menace around any opposition area; Hunt was an old fashioned centre forward of the kind now discouraged, but who would strike terror into any modern defence. His features and hair were unruly, as was his game; he knew his job, which was to get to any ball in the opposition box and somehow get it in the net. To this end he used any tools at his disposal: he could shoot with either foot, was a terrific header of the ball, and had an inexhaustible energy and determination. I've seen the keeper catch the ball. and before he had a chance to react, be shoulder charged by Hunt into the back of the net still clutching the ball. Hunt was never dirty, but his game often wasn't pretty, just very effective, as his record shows. He was a real "Roy of the Rovers" character, and as such, made a perfect combination with another working class hero at the other end of the pitch, Ken Nethercott. 

Ken was a goalkeeper in the days when Keepers were hard men, and needed to be, and Ken was as tough as any of them. He looked like Alf Tupper from the "Rover" comic with his beat up features, and unkempt hair, roll neck sweater and baggy shorts. As a keeper he was energetic, safe and fearless, and played his last game for City in a sixth round cup match against Sheffield United, with his dislocated arm hanging useless at his side, in those pre-substitute days, as he dealt with all the high balls that came into his area with flailing one armed punches, a scenario that even the "Rover" would have considered too unlikely to print. He didn't play again, but his heroics, in those days before substitutes, gave us a replay at Carrow Road to get to the semi-final of the cup. I was there that electrifying night, having gone down ticketless to try my luck. I bought a 3/- ticket off a tout for 7/6 and gained entry to a packed Barclay stand, where, among 40,000 other people in the stadium that night, I had to climb up the back wall, where I hung in the roof girders and watched Nethercott's replacement, Sandy Kennon, let the ball slip through his legs in the first minutes to put us a goal down. We finally prevailed 3-2 though, much to the disgust of my companion in the rafters, a bloodied Sheffield United fan, who had travelled down from Sheffield, climbed over the fence because he had no ticket, tearing his cheek open on barbed wire in the process, and then watched his team lose. At the end of the game I commiserated with him , he wished us luck in the semis, and we parted amicably, in those long gone days before we felt that we had to hate anyone else, just because we supported a particular football team. In the fifties we would take the train to Colchester, Ipswich or Luton to watch Norwich play, and mix quite easily with the home fans, in those innocent days before segregation. We had days of joy, and days of disappointment, but we didn't need Kipling to tell us that Triumph and Disaster were two similar imposters; our lives were too full, and there was always the next game.

That legendary cup run had already produced another memorable day early in January when I had sat among a crowd of 38,000 in an icy, snow bound Carrow Road and watched Norwich destroy the great Manchester United, Bobby Charlton et al, 3-0. That great game has another reason to lodge in my memory, because my girlfriend at the time had a younger brother, annoying of course, as younger brothers always are, but who was also at the game that day, with his father, and who won the match ball in the raffle, signed by both teams. This ball had pride of place in their household in Scarlet Road, and was brought out for every game during the rest of the cup run, festooned with rosettes, and placed in the window, until the day of the semi-final replay that we lost. At that point the football was taken out of the window, and used to play football with in the street, to the point of inevitable disintegration. Fifty years later that once priceless football has long gone, as has the equally priceless girlfriend, but the annoying little brother has become, and remains, my best friend, as our lives and activities have become inextricably linked over a lifetime. It was indeed he, John Wilkes,who told me of the fate of the football some months ago, when he knew I was writing this book, and provided some of the photos I've used from his massive collection.