We used to sneak off fishing, my old Dad and me

                To anywhere there was water that was where we’d be

 

                To Walsall or to Stourbridge, by the Seven at Holt Fleet

        To Alrewas by the River Trent, or the Claines where the rivers meet

 

               To Ward End Park, or Edgbaston, to Salford by the pool

               All dressed up in fishing gear, I thought I looked so cool

 

          To the Fazeley Cut up Tyburn Road, or Lapworth Pounds we’d go

                Not only in summer, we’ve been in sleet and snow

 

          We’d be away from home for hours, catch the early morning bus

                Then sit down and start fishing, just the two of us

 

             We’d take cold bacon sarnies, a great big flask of tea

             Half a loaf of buttered toast and a bag of crisps for me

 

           Our Dad’s passed on now (bless him); he’s just a memory

            But if he came back tomorrow, I know just where we’d be

 

Aunt Dot was our Mom’s lodger, a built in sitter too

When our Dad took Mom to the flicks, Dot’s Charlie came to woo

 

‘It’s bedtime now’, our Dot would say, and Charlie quickly said

‘If you kids don’t get up them stairs, I’ll throw you up to bed’.

 

After five years in one bedroom, with four kids in one bed,

We danced and sang when our Aunt Dot, said that she’s ‘bout to wed.

The crowding it was over, at last a decent nap, no more Glenys in me ribs,

No more Linda on me lap. No more nights of wet the bed, ‘I dain’t do it’,

Four voices said, we blamed our Shirley’s doll instead.

 

The girls moved up to the attic, twenty stairs above,

I stayed in that cold back room, feeling anything but loved.

The times them girls chastised me, calling ‘Eric come up here’,

Then call out ‘Dad come quick’ and he’d belt me round the ear.

 

Glenys was the worst ‘un, anything but fear, when we said ‘Dad we’ve ad

Enough’ she’d just laff and jeer. (Our Glen weren’t scared of the belt)

Linda was the brainy ‘un, our Shirley well, she’d smother, if Mom weren’t

There, and Dad was out, she’d be our second Mother.

 

Bob the Staff was our dog then, Dad bought him from the Milkie, his

Pedigree said ‘Blue Lagoon’, but to us he was Bob, soft and silky.

I remember the night we had Bob put down, a cat scratch that went septic

We cried our eyes out for a week, ‘til we learned to accept it.

 

We had a cat called Omo, oh no he wasn’t queer,

He was just so old and scruffy and he stank like stagnant beer.

Omo didn’t last long, the poor old scruffy Cat,

He was poisoned by the Indians for peeing on their mat. (Good old Omo)

 

For fifteen years I loved that house. No bedbugs, just the odd small mouse.

With John and Alan and my best mate Bill,

I loved them years down Duddeston Mill.

We had a little tortoise whose name was Moll

She never went too far

Till  Alan Jones thought that she moved

Like a friction motor car

 

We buried Molly every year

In a straw-lined box to save

Her from the freezing winter

But it still became her grave

 

Cos that year was the coldest

The snow was four feet deep

And poor old little Molly

Never woke up from her sleep

 

So we got a new pet ‘Oliver’

He always asked for more

He always got it off our Shirl

That  cat , Shirley adored

 

Our Ollie was the gas-works King

The gas-works King of cats

The times our Ollie came back home

Torn to shreds by Railway rats

 

When we moved up to the Bromford

Ollie gave us such a fright

When my mate Trevor found him dead

We buried him that night

 

Then at midnight we heard noises

It was Ollie, our Shirl thanked God

Cos it wasn’t our cat that Trevor found

It was his, the silly sod!

When I were a Boy and men were Men

And Women moaned once but never again

When times were hard and so were Beds

When Cheeky Kids could be slapped round their heads

 

And Policemen and Teachers were shown respect

Cos Punishment come hard – what did you expect

If you did it once and never got caught

You did it again without any thought

 

But get caught once and feel some pain

You tend to think twice before doing it again

These days the kids will mug for coke

When caught the sentence is just a joke

 

Give me the days of crystal sets

Hiding up entry’s putting on bets

Staying out till seven what a lark

Better get in its getting dark

Give me the old days I’d rather look back

I can’t look forward to taking crack

 
I used to go to Devon Street,

To a school they called Saint Anne’s,

My sisters went there before me,

It was part of our Dad’s plans.

 

‘They’ll learn you things,’ our Dad said,

With a twinkle in his eye,

‘Now have you got your sarnies?

Don’t you look smart, my boy!’

 

I cried and cried, I done me best,

Took off me shirt, stamped on me vest,

It didn’t work, Dad held me down,

Mom dressed me up, and gave a frown.

 

‘Come on, our Eric, you're gonna be late,

Our Linda’s waiting by the gate.’

So down the path, dragging me feet,

I went crying and moaning down Devon Street.

 

 Eventually they got me there,

Mom spit on her hand and smoothed me hair,

Then spit on her hankie and wiped me face,

Making sure there was nothing out of place.

 

The playground was full of screaming kids,

All playing different games,

Like Hop Scotch, Skipping, Hide and Seek,

Boys calling girls bad names.

 

Suddenly a bell rang out,

The playground now was quiet,

All the kids went and stood in lines,

That teacher had stopped a riot!

 

The kids were filed off to Assembly,

We were shown round the school hall,

This place was the prison that kept me,                           Them six years felt like life to us all.