Technicolour Memories

I spent some time chatting to my oldest friend the other day. He's my oldest friend because I have known him longer than other friends, not because he'd one hundred and ten years old, by the way.

We both have a shared history. He lived no more than twenty yards from my house and until we were teenagers our days were spent together doing what all young lads of my generation did, getting up to mischief. Here in Yorkshire, we were described as a couple of little buggers! Now if you don't live in Yorkshire and have just choked on a biscuit having read this, it's not what you think. A 'little bugger' here means that you are a mischievous little scamp. Think Dennis the menace, and you get the idea. My wife, on hearing stories of my past, always claims that, as a child, I was feral! There is a slight truth in that: we were not bothered by our parents and left to get on with things. While my wife had parental guidance all through her childhood, we were allowed to run free in the countryside where we lived and during the summer holidays we would go camping together for weeks on end, and then we would really turn feral!

As we spoke the other day, memories came flooding back. All our good childhood memories have been cleaned down, then re-shot in HD Technicolour Panavision. They are the mind's equivalent of hot chocolate and marshmallows, they exist to give you a warm glow of nostalgia, with all the boring and nasty bits sent to the recycling bin!

In my mind's eye, I can see the fields we walked through carpeted with a lush pile of deep chlorophyll-green grass that gently swayed in an hypnotic ballet, as a warm summer breeze teased its way through each individual blade. In the distance, I can still see the woods which were our playground, our theme park. The woods had thick vegetation that clung to their perimeter, giving the impression that the trees had been drawn onto the landscape by a small child. From a distance, it looked like a forest of broccoli. Birds and animals provided our soundtrack, not loud and intrusive but, like all surround-sound, it was there to embrace you, and to add to the ambience. Each day had perfect cloudless blue skies, that radiated happiness. All my childhood memories are of long hot summers and short but magically white winters.

The woods were next to small rivers, or becks as they are known locally. We have no large imposing rivers here. Where we lived is near the moors, which are the source of many a powerful river. So most of the becks that we played in were, like ourselves, young and new to the world and not knowing what lay ahead. The water in the becks was cool and crystal clear, and there was life in them such as sticklebacks, bullheads and brown trout. The trout would swim against the fast flowing currents with just enough force to keep them in one spot. Their mouths were wide open waiting for any morsel of food to be washed down into their waiting ambush.

We would camp out in the woods, which, to us, were filled with dangerous escaped lunatics or murderous beasts. but in reality the most dangerous things in there were our own imaginations. Our tent always smelled of mouldy old socks and damp clothing, giving the impression of living in a mushroom farm. When the dark descended, hungrily eating up any glimmer of light, our imaginations would take over our rationality. Each creak and crack of trees or the sound of any nocturnal creature passing by, was to us, surely a mad, axe-wielding lunatic, or a hungry primeval beast looking for human flesh. We were always sure that something that was about to kill us. The axes we had brought with us to chop fire wood and the knives we had to cook with were seen as swords and battle axes and would be firmly held in our hands as we nervously waited for the imminent attack which never came. Many is the time that we awoke the next morning still clutching hold of an axe or knife, when in reality the most dangerous thing we ever encountered were foxes which regularly came to our camp to steal our food.

We would wander off into new horizons, which in reality were no more than ten miles from where we lived, but to us they were epic journeys of adventure. On stumbling upon a housing development we would encounter the natives. These were kids that never left their estate. For them, the woods and fields were of no use, they needed some form of entertainment made for them. But they didn't like kids from other estates on their patch. We would encounter what was usually one mouthy kid with a few sheep-like followers. The mouth would tell us that we were trespassing on their land and what they were about to do to us. My grandfather had taught me from an early age how to deal with bullies. As with all beasts, if you take care of the mouth, you usually render it useless. I would inflate my little skinny body as much as possible then scream and attack. I was soon known as 'That Mad Kid' but I didn't care because other kids left us alone.

Sometimes, we would encounter large mouthy kids with an even larger following. This was like 'The Lost Boys' meets 'The Lord of the Flies'. Then we would have no option but to run. We were fast and knew the woods, where the other kids only ever played around the edges. Threats would be hurled at us as we led the party of hunters deep into the woods, snarling them up on brambles and jumping across ditches, which they promptly fell into. Once deep in the woods we would wait in ambush for them and hurl stones at them. My friend had an uncanny accuracy with a stone. The group would fall into disarray, many crying as they were lost, while others swore and cursed promising to get their revenge on us if we ever strayed onto their patch again. This, for us was an invitation.

In my mind, there were only ever two seasons, summer and winter. Where my imaginary summers were always hot and long, my winters were short and cold. The snow would fall, re-carpeting the landscape and turning it into a winter wonderland. We couldn't afford gloves, so we put socks over our hands to keep them warm, but this was useless as, after the first snowball fight, they were cold and wet, so we just threw them away! My father was a joiner on the building sites, and when my brother and I were young, he made us a sledge out of plywood and conduit. This sledge was famous all over our estate. Others had sledges bought or made for them, but none could hold a candle to our super sledge. We could get four kids on it at a time, and the speed of it was phenomenal! This would often result in one of my many child hood trips to the local A&E with suspected broken bones or to have various wounds sewn up yet again.

As my friend and I relived these false memories of childhood, it filled us both with gooey sentiment. They were shared false memories which have, over the years, become important to us. Two middle- aged men who should know better laughing at each other and mocking each other, as we chatted about the things we did. But in reality, what we were doing was reaffirming our bond that we had cemented all those years ago. We were the only two people on the planet that could have this conversation, as we were the only two people who had experienced this childhood.

Lots has happened to us both since those days. We have often drifted apart. Not because of any fall outs, just because that's what happens in life. Back then, we had no responsibilities, no worries, the world was big, new and waiting for us to discover it. Now, many years later, we have responsibilities and have discovered the world and found that there are human beasts much worse than the ones we imagined and feared as children. I'm often saddened, and sometimes reduced to tears, when I hear of children who were not allowed a childhood. The terrible news this week of the aberrant crime committed by the retarded ill-educated sheep who rejoice in the name of Taliban, was too much for me to bear The thought of children cowering under a desk begging for mercy, as a low-life mindless Troglodyte shot them, gave me nightmares. To attack an establishment which should be a place of safety for children goes beyond any rational thought. These sheep want the people of the world to live in caves and stop developing as a species. The only modern inventions that they love and embrace are guns and bombs! Surely the world has no place for such inhuman beasts as these?

I'm glad that I had a chance to experience the life that I have had. I'm also glad that the friends that I made back then are still true friends and a big part of my life. I know that my childhood summers weren't all hot and sunny, I live in Yorkshire: we would have had a week of sunshine followed by three weeks of rain, just as we do now. Nor were my winters all cold and snowy, but that's how I shall remember them, and relive them, over, and over in my mind.

Long live technicolour childhoods!