Roy Travers
Stories (9/0)
Happy New Year
It’s that time as the year draws to an end when our thoughts are all about self improvement and how can we make better versions of ourselves by repairing the damage of the past twelve months our heads become awash in self doubt and disappointment in the image we see reflected back in the mirror then if by magic on January 1st all over the world people are setting goals for themselves, promises of losing weight, exercising more, joining a gym and the daddy of them all trying to quit smoking. These resolutions we make are all set with good intentions, sometimes sadly they are made while still under the influence of the previous nights celebrations but deep down in our heart of hearts we know it’s only a matter of time before the wheels will fall off our wagon. Somehow logic goes out the window and we start to believe the propaganda that we have been bombarded with throughout the year thanks to the internet, ridiculous promises of ‘how to lose 10 kilos in 10 days without exercise’ and the classic ‘I lost half my body weight while I slept’, all I can say is it must have been a miracle or someone crept into their bedroom and removed a limb with a hacksaw while they were in the land of nod dreaming of having the perfect TikTok body. The question is why do we believe such nonsense, is it guilt? Are we desperately trying to repair the damage we have bestowed on our bodies over the past twelve months with an empty promise which deep down we know will fail, but we can justify our decision with ‘well I gave it a go’ then carry on down our slippery slide to failure. I have found a solution to this problem and it’s working for me and I am happy to share my success with you dear reader, I won’t be asking you to join a subscription membership and eat my specially prepared dietary cuisine or count your calories while living off a lettuce leaf. I won’t ask you to strap a piece of technology to your wrist and count the steps you take each day and I definitely will not be asking you to purchase an over priced gym membership which may or may not still be open for the extent of your contract. Todays modern resolution maker has to walk a minefield to compete with and more importantly to be seen by those that matter (which is everybody) for we are constantly on view, our pictures are displayed across social networks whether taken as selfies and posted by ourselves or captured from outside sources and posted without consent. Therefore leisure wear that doesn’t make your bum look big, trainers that cost the equivalent of a third worlds economy have to be purchased before you dare step foot into the outside world, the days of wearing a daggy old pair of ‘tracky dacks’ and going for a jog are long gone it’s spandex all the way or you will never make it as an Influencer. But if like me the only person you want to influence is yourself or your nearest and dearest then take my advice turn off your phone lock away your iPad and follow my instructions and ask yourself what is it you truly want to achieve and for who’s benefit are you doing it ? If the answer is me then do what I have done and I can tell you it will change your life as it has mine, I am now in better shape than I have been in years both mentally and physically, I have increased my circle of friends and I haven’t jogged, kicked a ball, eaten like a rabbit or spent a kings ransom dressing up like a walnut in a condom. I believe I have become a more caring human being, more compassionate and definitely a far less selfish man. I have taken on the responsibilities of caring for and supporting the welfare of a dog a beautiful loving animal that thinks I am the best thing since sliced bread, he doesn’t judge me, he doesn’t care if my waistline is expanding or if I’m wearing Kmart sneakers he’s not worried about my appearance his only concern is that I offer him my love and support. Daily walks in the park, balls to chase and a meaty bone to chew on and in return he offers me companionship a reason to leave the house each day and unquestionable love but more importantly he offers me all this without judgment. I can now look in that mirror and smile at the person looking back at me. So dear reader if you are thinking of making a New Years Resolution my advice to you is get a dog and if you can’t afford to buy one then borrow a friends or better still get a rescue dog from the pound I promise you it will be the best decision you will ever make and one resolution were the wheels definitely will stay on.
By Roy Travers2 years ago in Motivation
The legend of Backdoor Billy
In the true tradition of folk hero’s Backdoor Billy deserves to stand alongside legends such as The Scarlet Pimpernel, Dick Turpin and Casanova. His escapades are second to none and it’s only through the telling of his adventures shall he take his rightful place amongst the worlds most infamous characters. It was his nocturnal exploits that first brought Billy to prominence and made him a household name in the City of Churches. His reputation spread like syphilis through a brothel and soon he became the centre of attention in more ways than one. The strange thing is Billy is not your average folk hero, he isn’t tall or indeed good looking by any stretch of the imagination in fact he is rather on the short side, no more than 5’5” on tip toes and rather puny. A mass of grey hair like snow on a mountain adorns this rather drawn and wrinkled man who looks every bit of his 50+ years (no-one actually knows his real age). So what is it about this migrant from the emerald isle that makes people adore or intensely hate him with such vigour that he is the topic of everyone’s dinner table conversations within a hundred miles? True he has all the charm that you associate with the Irish and he has obviously been blessed with the sweet melodic tones of the blarney and in true Gaelic tradition could charm the birds from the trees. So how and what has occurred to turn this leprechaun replica into South Australia’s most revered resident and place him deep in local folk lore? After all South Australia has a rather tainted reputation and in no way would a lack of dinner table conversation be an issue, sadly over the years South Australian dinner debates had been fuelled by such cases as the missing Beaumont children, Truro and more recently the Snowtown murders. Although Billy’s misgivings were not as traumatic as those senseless serial killings it still resonated with the local population, sure it never ended with the loss of life but it did reach deep into the psyche of many members of the Adelaide community. After all juicy gossip is fascinating as long as it’s about someone else, we all crave titilation and can’t resist hearing about other peoples misfortunes. Backdoor Billy’s story did change the lives of so many, a story that leaves in its wake broken homes, wrecked marriages and shattered reputations. Amazingly in the aftermath and through the ashes of this disaster a legend was created and this story is about one such hero, a true enigma and a man that the ‘bastards’ of the world admire and look up to, a true ‘Son of a Bitch’ a man that makes mother nature nervous and yes a man that would shag the ‘crack of dawn’ if he had half a chance. I first met Billy by accident in the summer of 98 on a rather barmy Friday evening after finally leaving my office and the worries of work behind me. I had been strolling along the banks of the River Torrens heading north towards my apartment were I found myself preoccupied watching the Swans as they settled gracefully on the glistening water and thinking how lucky I was to be living in such a beautiful City. As I looked back over my shoulder I could see the City of Adelaide bathed in the early evening haze and the lights of the famous Adelaide Cricket Oval which I thought were quite impressive stretching skyward like four fingers pointing to the heavens as if giving the bird to the city that surrounds them, could they be making a statement to all the doubters I thought to myself especially after all the controversy they caused when being erected and how people were up in arms saying they would ruin the skyline of the city, maybe this was the cricket Gods way of having the last laugh? As I continued my walk towards my apartment on this perfect evening I approached the gates of the Zoo and that’s when I first set eyes on Billy, there he was larger than life trying to wave down a taxi without success. He was obviously agitated and as I neared I could hear him talking to himself “Wankers” he muttered as our paths crossed and another taxi ignored his pleas, “beautiful evening” I said as I acknowledged him with a nod not wanting to agitate him further. “Taxi drivers, they are all Wankers” he responded angrily “should be bloody shot the lot of them,” I just gave a wry smile as if to confirm in the positive and continued on with my journey leaving him in my wake still shouting abuse to no-one in particular and as I turned the corner to cross the university playing fields making my way to the pub his rantings faded into the distance and all was peaceful once more. A nice cold beer was my reward for walking home from my office in the city and was my way of thanking myself from making the wise decision not to take the bus, after all I definitely could do with the exercise and to be honest it took away the guilt of enjoying a few cold refreshing beverages, and with that thought in my head I swiftly ordered another pint of nectar after the first one had disappeared down my throat without touching the sides. No sooner had I taken a sip of my second pint when in through the door walked my outraged Gaelic acquaintance I had met earlier looking totally bedraggled, dripping in sweat and I swear his red face looked as if it was ready to explode, “Fucking Taxi drivers” he yelled in a thick northern Irish accent as he made his way to the bar. Apparently as I found out later he had left the Irish club in the city a little worse for wear and tried to flag down a Taxi but none would stop and pick him up due to his rather unsteady and wavering gait believing he was drunk, which in all honesty was blatantly clear. So I decided to offer to buy him a drink and sat him down before any of the bar staff could see what condition he was in and once settled I introduced myself and it was then that I learned his name, “Billy” he said offering his hand for me to shake “nice to meet you mate” he continued while apologising for his behaviour, he then began to off load the details of his experience to me. To be honest he was more angry than drunk as the long walk from the club had sobered him up slightly, and he was just thankful he had someone he could whinge to about his ordeal. We chatted for ages discussing a myriad of topics from football to whether Australia should become a republic but there was one topic we kept reverting back to or should I be more precise a topic he kept wanting to revisit. With the enthusiasm of a pubescent teenager his eyes lit up with the mention of women and sex in particular, he seemed a little obsessed as he constantly glanced around the room while displaying a rather unhealthy interest in his sexual fantasies about what he would like to do with the women who were in the pub. “I’d like to give her one” he whispered to me gesturing towards a rather pretty but extremely young lady sitting alone reading a magazine which made me feel very uncomfortable so I decided it was time to offer my excuses, shake his hand and explain unfortunately I had to leave and hopefully we will catch up again sometime, what a strange man I thought to myself as I made my way home leaving him to scrutinise the female clientele and ponder over his devious thoughts. The following Friday I again called in to my local pub for a serving of my usual liquid refreshment following a hard week at the office, and as it was the end of the month and there had been the dreaded end of month meeting to sit through my throat now needed clearing of all the bull dust it had swallowed. So while being served by my favourite barmaid Sophie who began her usual exchange of professional pleasantries as she skilfully deposited the perfect head to the top of my delightfully chilled beer. “How has your day been” she enquired as I emptied half that delicious beverage down my throat, licking my lips before responding with “you don’t want to know” and continued to drain the rest of the glass “another” she asked with a wry smile and without waiting for an answer proceeded to skilfully fill another perfect pint of amber fluid and resting it on a beermat in front of my approving eyes. Sophie has all the skills needed to be employed in the hospitality industry, she always has a welcome smile on her face, will acknowledge you with a glance even when serving another customer and will always try to engage in conversation no matter how brief whether she is interested in your topic or not, she is the epitome of a good customer service. She is amazingly mature for someone so young and couldn’t be more than 25 years old, a very pretty young lady slim with jet black shoulder length hair who portrays a zest for life. I admire her tenacity and professionalism and I have to admit she does brighten up what can only be described as a dull and boring day, when suddenly and discreetly she leaned across the bar and quietly whispered “who was that Irish chap you were in here with last week?“ Explaining that I had just made his acquaintance that afternoon and all I knew about him was his name, well, that dirty bugger made a pass at me she informed me and he’s old enough to be my Dad, no Grandad she continued and I had to call the night manager after he moved on to pester other ladies who were in the bar and eventually he was asked to leave and escorted off the premises before any serious trouble began when one of the ladies boyfriends came back from the toilet to witness him slouching across the table trying to chat her up whispering in her ear with one arm draped across her shoulder and as you can imagine he was understandably upset and looked like he was about to knock the living shit out of him. What could I say apart from how sorry I was that he harassed you and caused such chaos, but please understand he is not a friend of mine and now I’m intrigued to discover more about this Irish Casanova and I think I know were to start my search? I recall the first time I met Billy when he told me he had been trying to hail a cab from the Irish club and how they refused to pick him up because he had been slightly worse for wear after his usual Friday afternoon session. So with this in mind I decided if I was going to uncover what makes this emerald green Romeo tick then the best place to start would have to be the Irish club in the city. I decided I would visit the club next Friday after work and hopefully run into him there or at the very least speak to someone who can fill me in on what drives his obvious over reactive and chaotic libido. Was it just a one off occurrence at my local brought on by alcohol or was he a serial womaniser, these questions intrigued me and I was now obsessed with knowing the answer. So the following Friday I finished work early hoping to extend my weekend if only by a few hours, after all any extension to the weekend is a welcome one and precisely at 12 noon I left my office and headed towards Victoria Square and proceeded to head down Carrington Street in search of my destination which I found without hesitation as the clubs orange, white and green flag fluttered and waved as if beckoning all to it’s door. Once inside I headed to the bar, ordered a pint of Guinness and while I waited for my glass to settle with it’s half filled black gold I casually asked the barman if he knew of a chap called Billy, I knew it was a long shot and he looked a little puzzled as he continued to pour the remainder of my beer and while he expertly drew a harp with the nozzle of the tap into it's creamy white head he looked up at me and said do you mean backdoor Billy? As I explained that I didn’t know his full name I proceeded to described what he looked like and about how old I thought he was and how I first met him “Oh that’s backdoor Billy all right, the dirty little bugger is notorious around here, there are some folk that would swing for him” he told me before moving along to serve another customer. I took my pint and made my way to a vacant table to sit and ponder over what the barman had just said and also to finally wrap my lips around this majestic pint of pure black smooth Irish gold. As I neared the bottom of my glass with the thought of a refill in mind and before I could raise myself from my chair a rather large middle aged gentleman sat himself down opposite to me and stretched out his hand for me to shake, he introduced himself as Michael “but everyone calls me Mick” he continued “I believe you have been asking after backdoor Billy” he said with a stern look on his face “you a friend of his” he enquired and after explaining my story yet again he accepted my reasons for being there, he then began to pour his heart out to me as if he was at church in the confessional box and talking to his priest, he went on to explain that Billy had ruined his marriage which caused him considerable ongoing health problems. “That little shit totally messed up my life”. He went on to explain that he is a shift worker at Holdens Elizabeth plant and apparently the little Irish Casanova would lay in wait as he left the house to head to work Billy would nip round to the back door and let himself in, he later found out that this had been going on for years and he was not only having an affair with Mick’s wife but he found out later she was just one of many, the exact number is still not know to this day but those of which came to light were all wives of Holden workers and all with the same MO, hubby leaves through front door to go on night shift and Billy enters via the backdoor. The rumours that circulated throughout the factory were there was more than twenty but nobody really knows the true extent of this nocturnal philanderer and how much damage he has caused to families of so many, but it seems everyone who works at Holdens Elizabeth knows someone who’s wife or partner has been or still is being seduced by this Gaelic Casanova. Mick eventually finished his beer after pouring out his deepest dark secrets and left me alone to try and make sense of what I had just heard, surely if everyone knows who Backdoor Billy is and the damage he has caused amongst the workers of Holdens then why hasn’t someone done something about it? After all I found it easy to locate him and if it was my wife he was servicing behind my back I would lay in wait and break his fucking legs. While in deep thought and now well into my third pint I couldn't believe my eyes for who came walking in and up to the bar was the man himself, Backdoor Billy and as he glanced around the room while ordering a pint he spotted me “I’ll be right over” he said and sure enough within a couple of minutes he was over to my table with a pint in hand and declaring “good to see you again, cheers” while proceeding to sit himself down next to me. I explained to him that as I left work early I decided I would visit the Irish club after hearing the stories you told me about how good it is and hopefully catch up with you as you did say you always called in every Friday. We continued to swap small talk between us before I picked up the courage to bring up my earlier conversation with Mick and the shock I felt from what he had told me and as I went on to explain the real reason why I was visiting the club, he just sat there rubbing his hand up and down the outside of his glass while staring down deep into his beer like a naughty boy who was being told off by his mother as I passed on what Sophie had told me. He just sat there for a few minutes in silence obviously reflecting on what I had just told him when he raised his head, looked me straight in the eye and said “yes I have a high libido, yes I’ve slept with hundreds of women and yes I made them all happy”. He continued on to tell me and how the word had gotten around between all these frustrated ladies who’s partners were not satisfying them and that he was willing to service them on a needs basis and as his employment with Holdens was a 9 to 5 office job which therefore allowed him plenty of scope for fulfilling his nocturnal duties. He went on to say he has no regrets and he is still visiting his liaisons via the backdoor of the nightshift workers of Holdens and will continue to do so while there is a need. I've never been approached by anyone to stop, no husband or partner has ever confronted me and I still get propositioned every day by new, lets call them clients. Yes I have made mistakes he continued and yes he regrets upsetting the regulars of my local pub but his last words to me before he finished his pint and disappeared out of the club were “don’t blame me for ruining peoples lives, I'm not the problem just think of me as a tradesman someone who is there only to service a need, remember if there is wasn't a need then there would be no service” and with that he was gone. I never saw him again after that afternoon and in hindsight and the passing of time I grew to actually like him and never again thought of him as a womaniser of philanderer, to me he will always be remembered as a bloody good tradesman and we all know how hard they are to find.
By Roy Travers2 years ago in Fiction
Girls and the football Echo
Discrimination or chauvinism were not words I was familiar with or truly understood as a teenager I just assumed it was banter between men and women that was enjoyed by all and not meant to be taken seriously and should be laughed off with "boy's will be boy's". But I soon got a rude awakening when these two phrases reared their ugly head and would be instrumental in my personal life. I was now the target of bullies who deemed my forthcoming actions are equal to that of a traitor, some would say I sold my soul to the Devil in favour of receiving the affections of a female. According to many I was enticed by a jezebel and my loyalty had been called into question, so what was it that caused such angst? Apparently I had invited a girl yes a girl to come with me to watch Liverpool FC in their next home game, had I been seduced by a Mata Hari? Now you must understand we are talking about the early 60's a time when male chauvinistic tendencies were prevalent and true equal rights had not reached their rightful place in society, this was a time when some men still believed a woman's place was in the home and to be more precise in the kitchen and anchored to the stove and not behind the goal in the Spion Kop, as this was definitely considered the inner sanctum of a male only domain by the chauvinistic Neanderthals of the time. I had never bought in to the chauvinistic beliefs that football is football and girls are girls and the two should never mix, but according to many I was about to commit a cardinal sin. This was a time when being PC meant being a member of the constabulary and sadly being politically correct regarding equal opportunities was just a dream to be resolved in the not too distant future. After ignoring the negative backlash I proceeded to make arrangements to meet my date outside the Arkles Hotel a popular spot for many die hard supporters as it was so close to the ground and for many the last drinking hole before entering the hallowed place of worship, I arrived early to discover she was already there waiting for me and looking a little uncomfortable as hoards of slightly drunk supporters made their way pushing past her trying to get into the hotel for their final beer before reaching Anfield's holy gates. She looked amazing wrapped up in a magnificent Liverpool scarf and knitted bobble hat, It was quite obvious she’d done this before. Sadly for me I just had the scarf my mum knitted for me many years earlier and apart from looking worse for wear with the odd moth hole here and there it was too long and had to be wrapped around my puny neck half a dozen times to stop me tripping over it, I don’t know what happened either she just thought she would use up all the wool she had or she didn’t know how to cast off. As we headed towards the ground my date informed me she had never been in the Kop before, she usually watched from the paddock with her Dad and that she had heard the Kop was a bit rough. But I assured her that everything would be fine and that there is nowhere on the planet better to watch the Red’s from (obviously not letting on I was a recent escapee from the boys pen). The place was buzzing as we approached the ground people were queuing at every turnstile, it was quite obvious that the game was going to be a sellout. We joined one of the queues for the Kop, and I bought a match day football Echo broadsheet off a street vendor. Looking confused my date asked me why did I want a paper for as it will be almost impossible to read it in the ground, looking confused she had no understanding of the importance of having your own copy of the Echo at matches, it’s a ritual she’ll come to understand soon enough. We amused ourselves over the next hour waiting for the gates to open by listening to the religious fanatics with their sandwich boards draped over their shoulders promising ‘hell and damnation’ to the thousands of sinners unless they repent. “The lord is coming to Liverpool” one screamed what will you sinners do then he bellowed? From the crowd came the usual response “move St John to the wing you tosser”. It was now approaching one o’clock and the gates were being opened around the ground. The place was swarming with Tottenham Hotspur supporters giving it the old knees up mother Brown, “We’ll see who’s got a lovely bunch of coconuts at twenty to five” I whispered to my excited date as we scrambled through the turnstile and climbed the steps up to the Kop. We stood at the top of Kop for a few moments soaking up the atmosphere and I could see the look of disbelief on her face as she glanced around the ground, I knew what she was feeling. It still lives with me to this day. It doesn’t matter how many times you visit Anfield that moment of entry from the top at the back of the Kop literally takes your breath away. It seems like the whole population of the City of Liverpool is crammed into the ground, a sea of red and white bodies swaying and chanting as one, it’s an incredible feeling of belonging. As we made our way downwards and through the crowd to our position behind the goal I felt like a soldier joining his comrades at the front line ready to do battle. It was now a quarter to three and we were eagerly awaiting the enemy when out of the tunnel the mighty reds appeared, the crowd exploded with delight into a deafening roar as big Ron Yeats led the team towards the Kop and duly delivered the ball by thumping it into the back of the empty goal. The crowd were swept along in a surge of bodies down the Kop steps as people clambered to get a closer view of their idols as they raced onto the hallowed turf. The adrenaline was pumping as we staggered back up the steps to our original positions, then out came the enemy to a crescendo of boo’s, the toss was made, first blood to the reds as Big Ron won and decided to defend the Kop in the first half, this was the usual action on winning the toss as they could rain down havoc on visiting teams in the second half by marauding towards the mighty Kop end as away teams with there backs at the Kop were shaken by the roars that surrounded them as they tried to defend. We spent the next forty-five minutes ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ as the reds stormed down the pitch raining crosses into the Tottenham goalmouth only to be thwarted by the agility of their brilliant goalkeeper Pat Jennings and the woodwork. Half time had arrived and the score was 0-0, but the crowd was optimistic, after all we would be attacking the Kop end in the second half and everyone knows that’s worth at least one goal. The usual analysis of the game was being discussed during the break, which usually centred on whether the referee’s parents were married or not. When my date asked, how do you go to the toilet? Which brought a great burst of laughter from the immediate area? When one close supporter said, Listen luv, you’ve got about as much chance of getting to the bog as winning the lotto, have you any idea how many people are crammed in here? I just hope you’ve got ya wellies on he continued. What does he mean? She whispered in my ear, not wanting to seem ignorant, look down I said pointing to the torrents of water gushing down the terrace steps, what is it she screamed, urine I informed her why do you think I wanted the Echo? I spent the next five minutes explaining to her that because it was virtually impossible to get to the toilets at half time people peed on the floor. The Echo gets rolled up, you stick your manhood in it and you pee down the tube, which prevents you from urinating down the back of the legs of the person in front of you. That’s disgusting she said, why can’t they wait till the games finished? Because most of these men have had at least five pints of beer before getting in I told her as the crowd burst into applause as the teams arrived back on the pitch for the second half. The roar as the second half got under way was enough to make the hairs on your bottom stand on end, never the back of your neck. It’s the most incredible experience you can imagine watching a sea of red shirts attacking the Kop. I think I know how Davy Crockett must have felt at the Alamo as poor Tottenham tried to defend their territory, with the same inevitable result. Liverpool showed no mercy that afternoon and put Tottenham to the sword scoring three times in fifteen minutes, with goals from St John (2) and Hunt. We sang, screamed and chanted till we could hardly mutter a raspy note and by the time the referee blew the final whistle total exhaustion had set in. We’d been pushed, shoved and dragged up and down the piss-drenched steps of the Kop for ninety minutes and we couldn’t have been happier, after all we’d beaten the Cockney buggers 3-0. As we reached the top of the Kop on our way out we stopped and turned as one to soak up that last bit of atmosphere, as we stood there in our sodden footwear staring down at that magnificent arena my Jezebel said to me thank you that was the greatest experience I’ve ever had, will you take me again? Only if you wear your wellies I chuckled as we headed down the steps and out into the street in search of the end of game customary fish and chips.
By Roy Travers2 years ago in Confessions
Rite of Passage
My heart began thumping as I made the decision that this was the perfect time to climb out of the wire cage, it felt like my chest was about to explode. I could feel the adrenalin pumping through my veins as the nervous beads of sweat began to roll down my brow, could I make it without being caught? Many before me had made it to the promised land and I could see no reason why I couldn’t follow in their footsteps, after all I was now in my 13th year and all the stars were aligned, it had to be now it was time to grit my teeth and attempt the great escape and to hell with the consequences. I was like a caged lion pacing up and down and from side to side of this crammed enclosure called the boys pen an area of Liverpool Football Club very high up at the back of the famous Anfield Kop were young boys could watch the games away from the surging crowds in relative safety and preventing young bodies from being crushed. Although in theory it makes sense to keep the younger supporters away from the cramped and dangerous steps of the terraces however it is every young boys dream to move on from the boys pen and join the men of the mighty red army, yes I wanted to be a full blown kopite. I wanted to experience the swaying, the crushing and of being pushed and pulled up and down those urine soaked steps it was time for my rite of passage. So throwing caution to the wind I made my escape, climbing up the railings higher and higher stretching to reach the top while the crowd of want to be boys pen escapees cheered as I scaled the mesh wall finally reaching and tumbling over the top rail and falling into the arms of the encouraging kopites below saving me from instant disaster and preventing my face from slamming into the dripping wet concrete steps. It was Saturday 21 April 1962 and I now found myself embedded deep in the midst of the Spion Kop, no longer a boy I was now a part of Bill Shankly’s red army singing the famous war cry of ‘Ee aye addio’ were going to win the league as the teams came out the tunnel and entered the arena. Southampton made their way to the Anfield Road end while Liverpool led by the mighty Ron Yeats headed towards the Kop goal sending 40000 Liverpool supporters around the ground into raptures as well as 17000+ kopites with me included careering down the piss drenched steps and back again swaying and chanting while trying not to fall over or get trapped behind a barrier. It was a filthy afternoon cold, wet and windy but it couldn’t dampen the excitement as a Liverpool win would make them 2nd division champions with still five games to pay, and I was going to be apart of this historic day as a full blown Kopite. After the ninety minutes and the final whistle was blown Liverpool had emerged the winners by two goals with both goals being scored by Kevin Lewis (19 - 29 mins) who himself was a replacement and only playing because of an injury to Liverpools normal centre forward Ian StJohn. The crowd could not control their emotions again surging up and down the terraces singing, chanting and desperate to climb onto the pitch to congratulate their victorious gladiators. The police had formed a barrier in front of the Kop by linking arms preventing the desperate and hopeful admirers from entering onto the hallowed ground, and as we watched the team being clapped off the pitch via a tunnel formed by the Southampton players and into the safety of the Liverpool dressing room the crowd with me firmly ensconced made a break for it scaling over the barrier like revolutionaries climbing the Bastille walls. We dodged between the police as their ranks broke, there were too many to control and sensibly they decided to let us onto the pitch to celebrate, 20000 fanatic supporters dancing and singing “we want the reds, we want the reds” when suddenly out of the tunnel emerged the injured Ian StJohn and captain courageous Big Ron Yeats who were immediately mobbed and before the rest of the team could emerge from the tunnel to join them the police escorted both players back down into the bowels of Anfield before serious injury could occur, it was obviously too dangerous for the players to do a lap of honour and so celebrations would have to be put on hold. What an evening, what an adventure I started the day a boy hoping to see my beloved Liverpool creep closer to climbing out of the second division and into the first division were they belonged. I believe our joint mission was accomplished as we both achieved our goals that wet and stormy Saturday afternoon in April as Liverpool became champions and I emerged a man. But there was one final quest I needed to complete before I could leave that hallowed turf and return to my so called normal life, I decided to dig up a small piece of grass from the centre circle which I secured in an empty match box and kept for many years in my bedroom as a reminder of my journey in gaining my rite of passage until I learned that my mother threw it out declaring it a health hazard a toxic breeding ground for bacteria. If only she knew what that small piece of earth represented and the importance it was to my growth, it may have been just a piece of mouldy grass to her but to me it represented life itself, it was my Holy Grail, my Garden of Eden, it was what can only be described as Valhalla.
By Roy Travers2 years ago in Cleats
Work
As we have established academia was not my forte therefore my transition from the school yard and into the world of work could only take one of two pathways, one being the world of manual labour/factory fodder or with a great deal of good fortune into the fortunate life of a trade. In 1964 I was extremely lucky to gain an apprenticeship in joinery through a family member who secured me a placement with a local building company and the same Gods that deserted me when I shat my pants in my primary school days had now deemed my life on this planet worthwhile when I found myself entering the gates of C.&G.L. Desoers Ltd Master Builders based at 2-4 Marathon Street Liverpool 6, armed with my brew (sugar and tea wrapped in newspaper) and cheese & onion sandwiches ready to start my life as an apprentice. Although deep down I was shaking like a jelly outwardly I was trying to portray the confidence that was befitting of an experienced man of the world, I quickly learned that my bravado never fooled anyone. Within an hour of meeting my work colleagues I soon came to realise where in the food chain of the workplace I actually fitted and if I thought my first day at school was bad enough I never could have imagined what this so called mature adult world had in store for me. I had been instructed by the foreman that my role was to be a 'runner' and 'can lad' (messenger and tea maker) for those on the shop floor and to keep my mouth closed and my ears open and that my duties would include going to the shop prior to lunchtime with their orders which mainly meant the chippy and to brew the tradesmen’s individual cans of tea on my return in readiness for lunch. So having a clear understanding of what was expected of me I decided to show initiative hoping to prove myself a valuable member of the team, now armed with my note paper and pencil I started to take orders from each individual hoping to make a good impression with my keenness. There were four Joiners, two Machinists and two general labourers plus Mr Hughes the Foreman and as a wet behind the ears gullible fresh piece of meat, my first ever lunch order I diligently took was as follows: Joiner Fred "I'll have one bag of chips and one piece of Cod, 20 Woodies (cigarettes) and a pint of pigeons milk". Machinist Bill, asked me to call in to ironmongers next to chippy and ask if they had an elastic tape measure in stock and to find out the cost. Joiner Bob, again while at the ironmongers asked me to pick up one large tin of blue fog. Labourer Tom, "I'll have a bag of chips and a pot of curry sauce also while at ironmongers ask if they sell fanny crack filler". Foreman Mr. Hughes, requested me on the way back to call into the front office and ask Mr. Desoer if he could give me a long stand. So having humiliated myself at the ironmongers asking for ‘Fanny crack filler’ ‘blue fog’ ‘Pigeons milk’ and an ‘elastic tape’ I was now being told to wait outside the front office while somebody fetched the long stand while juggling an arm full of wrapped steamy fish and chips before then being sent back to the workshop after a 10 minutes minus the mythical stand and having to listen to the howls of laughter from my so called work colleagues on the shop floor, at this point I couldn't imagine my life being any worse but how wrong I was. That afternoon when all the lunchtime activities had settled down and my humiliation was beginning to fade and the day was drawing to a close I was engrossed in my cleaning duties of brushing up the shavings and preparing the workshop in readiness for home time when my nightmare truly began, what happened next put being placed down a school yard coke chute by a group of pimply faced morons into insignificance? When out of the blue I was duly set upon by the two muscular labourers who pinned me to the workshop floor then proceeded to drag my trousers down below my knees, before continuing to remove my underpants and began to smear my genitals in fish glue which in turn were being showered in wood shavings by the rest of the workers. I had been well and truly initiated and apparently this was an accepted ritual for all new apprentices throughout the building industry and totally endorsed by employers and employees who turned a blind eye to these so called initiations and dismissed them as workplace pranks, but this was the sixties when OHS&W was non existent and I thought my school days were bad. But revenge can sometimes be sweet, very sweet indeed and it was some weeks later that I began to reap my reward or should I say rewards as my revenge lasted for the whole year and to this day I'm sure my devious exploits have gone undetected which still brings a wry smile to my face as I share this with you. As I stated earlier my duties as a first year apprentice included preparing and making my work colleagues 'cans of tea' in readiness for their lunch which in turn meant cleaning out the cans from the morning break. Being a dedicated 'Can Lad' and keen apprentice I took these duties very seriously and had decided that the only way to keep these Cans' clean and free from tea stains was to urinate in them and boy did I urinate in them, every working day for the rest of the year I performed my duties with diligence and a great deal of hot steamy body fluid. My initiation may have been humiliating but after all it was only one day of barbaric and archaic behaviour and my sweet revenge was calculated, lasting and extremely pleasurable to observe those nasty bastards sipping their lunchtime cuppa's while I sat watching, eating my cheese & onion sandwiches and occasionally giggling to myself while enquiring 'how's your tea?’ Three years into my apprenticeship and things had settled down, I had become a true member of the team and my joinery skills were improving day by day, the demons of the past had truly faded along with the glue stains that had engulfed my juvenile genitals. I was happy with my lot after all I had moved on from my initial pay slip of two pound sixteen shillings and eight pence a week as a 15 year old to earning over eight pounds a week at 17, which in 1966 to me was a small fortune. My mum would take three pound for housekeeping and I had the princely sum of a fiver ever week to spend as I liked, my life was on the up after all one pound ten shillings could buy you 8 pints of lager, a packet of 20 woodies and a curry. Things could not have been better when out of the blue the worse possible news was delivered to me one bright sunny August morning as I entered the gates to start another working day, when I was greeted by Mr. Hughes and led into his office to be told that my apprenticeship was to be suspended as Desoers Building Contractors were going into receivership and my employment would be terminated effective immediately. Mr. Desoer himself apologised personally for the situation he found himself in and promised to do everything in his power to have my apprenticeship transferred to another builder for completion. True to his word within two days I received news that my apprenticeship would be taken over and continued with a London based company called Trollope and Colls who were one of the main contractors on the massive building project in the city centre of Liverpool I was to finish serving my time on the largest building site the north of England had seen at that time. I would spend the next three years working on one of Liverpool’s most iconic features, the amazing St Johns shopping precinct and I had the opportunity and good fortune to have played my part in the construction of Liverpool’s tallest building the St Johns Beacon, now known as the Radio City Tower which is one of the cities great skyline features and stands proud along with the two amazing Cathedrals and of cause the famous Liver building with it’s iconic Liver birds staring out over the River Mersey. Radio City Tower is a radio and observation tower formally a revolving restaurant and ventilation shaft built in 1969 and opened by Queen Elizabeth II It was designed by James A. Roberts Associates in Birmingham. It is 138 meters (452 foot) tall, and is the second tallest free-standing building in Liverpool and the 32nd tallest in the United Kingdom. When considering the height of the building, however, it has a 10 metre long antenna on the roof, making it the highest structure in Liverpool. So my claim of working on Liverpool’s tallest building still remains true at the time of penning this memoir.
By Roy Travers2 years ago in Confessions
Boobs, Bras and Virginity
From the age of 14 my thoughts were totally consumed with sex, my hormones had hi-jacked my body and I had lost control and not only in my waking hours there was no relief in sleep either. I spent these early adolescent years harbouring what seemed a permanent erection, a ‘stiffy’ that would not subside and woke most mornings finding my underpants bathed in a sticky residue after experiencing another erotic dream. Everything turned me on and I had absolutely no control to the point where I even struggled travelling on the bus and on many occasion I had to stay on past my stop in fear of alighting with an obvious erection protruding from my trousers. The bouncing of the bus especially travelling over railway tracks would spark a reaction and it would often take 2 or 3 stops past my destination and some serious concentration, usually reciting my seven times table in my head (I always had trouble with my seven times table) before my condition had subsided enough allowing me to stand and vacate the bus. Playboy magazines and in particular ‘Playmate of the Month’ became my study material beautifully formed and surgically enhanced women dominated my reading library and I swear I used to believe that all women had staples in their belly buttons thanks to the many centrefolds I had studied after all I had never seen a real live women naked. I’d been pleasing myself over glossy photo shopped models for ages even after deciding to continue at the risk of going blind. I was forever being told along with my school friends that blindness was a bi-product of too much self-gratification and that the Lord Jesus sees all and I was destined for hell. These myths and old wives tales were continuously being fed to us by teachers and religious leaders wanting to curb our so called evil ways but the thought of having my sight diminished by a higher power wasn’t enough to curb my uncontrollable desires even if he was watching. Although I had not entered into the real world of female nakedness at this point in my life and my only experience of actually touching the female form had been restricted to a glancing brush of a breast while engaged in some heavy snogging with a local girl behind the school bike shed. She was the sister of a friend of mine and a year older and it was she who instigated our after class activities and as these snogging sessions became more frequent it was becoming more and more obvious that things were about to move into the next phase. It was during one of these bike shed liaisons that she just blurted out “do you like my tits?” and like a trembling fool I mumbled “Oh yes, oh yes they are beautiful” and before I could continue she proceeded to unbutton her blouse, lift up her bra and expose the most perfectly rounded succulent breasts for me to view, although trembling I just did what any pimply hormone induced 15 year old sex addict would do, yes I dived in head first and began to bury my face in between them deeper and deeper until they were muffling out the surrounding sounds as I uncontrollably dribbled like a Labrador enjoying a juicy bone.. The excitement was too much for me and to be honest I’m not sure how long I was submerged between them but when I eventually came up for air I was smiling like a Cheshire cat, my ears popped like I had been flying at altitude and as my hearing returned to normal and they took in the surrounding noise of everyday life I realised my underwear once again had become awash in a wet sticky mess. We continued to see each other twice a week over the next 6 months and although we never advanced past boob manipulation and I still remained a virgin I had become a proud master of unclipping and removing a ladies bra with one hand like a well trained Ninja, while keeping the other free and available for further body exploration, a very useful skill which would be of benefit to me in the future. They say you always remember the first time you have sex no matter how long ago or how many partners you may have had since and this is certainly the case for me. Although my bike shed exploits had become a distant memory they served me well through my baron 15th year which had been sexually non eventful and discreetly passed without so much as a sight of a boob let alone real sex, but I was now into my 16th year I still had not actually progressed towards my manhood, but that was all about to change when 2 weeks before my 17th birthday I eventually lost my virginity. Yes it was memorable and I will never forget it but sadly for all the wrong reasons, to say it was a disappointment would be an understatement it was in fact traumatic and definitely not what I had imagined my first time to be like. The evening began as most Friday nights did with myself and a group of friends sneaking into one of the less reputable public houses where we would be guaranteed to be served. Liverpool had many Pubs that turned a blind eye to the age laws and we took full advantage of these watering holes and accepted their hospitality wholeheartedly. Eventually we would end up in a night club again who’s interpretation of the law was lacking and rather worse for wear after consuming large quantities of Lager. As the night progressed and my new found self-imposed Dutch courage took over I approached a really beautiful girl who was with a small group of friends whom I had observed was shyly glancing over her friends shoulder towards our group, smiling and displaying all the signs of actually liking me, I introduced myself and we chatted and danced for what seemed like hours, the time just evaporated away when suddenly the venue lights flickered on and the bouncers started ushering everyone out into the cold night air, my friends and hers had all left and we stood alone on the pavement declaring how rude we must have seemed for them to abandon us like this as we had completely got lost in each others company, so like any White Knight would do I offered to walk her home which she accepted, linked my arm kissed me and we headed down the road towards her house . We soon arrived after what only seemed like minutes but in reality took an hour, I was so caught up in the moment that I had no concept of time and as we stood at her front door we started to kiss then tongues got involved and my new found Ninja skills took over releasing the clasp of her bra with one hand while the other roamed around fondling the rest of her body. We were now into some heavy petting and both enjoying the moment when she whispered “You can come in, but be quiet my mum and dad are in bed upstairs”. The house was a typical 2 up 2 down terrace and the walls were paper thin and definitely the kind of accommodation you couldn’t swing a hamster in never mind a cat, but this was an opportunity I was not going to miss. We crept along the hallway and into the lounge and purposely not turning on any lights we lay on the floor in silence and continued our sexual exploits, kissing biting and shedding clothing. When suddenly we heard a creek, we both froze for a second and listened “shhh don’t make a sound she whispered into my ear” at this point I think my heart stopped, but after a few seconds all was quiet again and our exploits continued where we left off. Trousers and undies off, shirt off, bra and panties discarded and as quietly as I could while laying on top of her I began to enter her, my head was awash with a thoughts of my seven times table “one seven is seven 2 sevens are 14 etc etc” I didn’t want to ruin this moment with an uncontrolled premature embarrassing release. Then suddenly as I continued to thrust there was a huge smack on my bottom, ‘whack’ a big wet smack hit me across my backside, this time I was sure I was about to die and as I turned around expecting to see an angry parent standing over me I realised I was being mounted by the biggest fucking dog I’d ever seen. There I was as naked as the day I was born being molested by a horny bloody Labrador.To say the episode was over would be an understatement there now was movement from the upstairs, footsteps could be heard and like a true hero I was up dressed and heading for the bus before things could get any worse after all I wasn’t about to hang around to meet any more of her family. Although it was an absolute none romantic episode a total disaster which had probably left me with a permanent heart defect at least I was no longer a virgin, although penetration was minimal but it was penetration and therefore in the eyes of Sods law legally I had lost my virginity. Having left in rather a hurry that evening and without exchanging contact details we never saw each other again but there will always be a special place in my heart for that young lady a special place I’ve labelled ‘Cherry Popper’ and she will never be forgotten. I have often wondered if she ever found a secret place in her heart to remember me by and if she ever did I’m sure she filed it away under the title of ‘Wanker’.
By Roy Travers2 years ago in Filthy
Education
Liverpool in the 50’s and early 1960’s prior to the Mersey sound explosion and in particular the emergence of The Beatles was a typical working class British City famous only for its football clubs, docklands and ferry’s that crossed the Mersey into Birkenhead and the Wirral. Growing up in these times was the same for all young men and women living in industrial cities across the nation, war had been over for 15 plus years and although rationing was a distant memory there was concern as jobs were scarce and there was unrest amongst the soon to be referred to as the ‘Baby Boomers’. Teddy Boys were desperate to hang on to their identity as a new wave of delinquents were emerging from the new sounds beginning to filter through from the bowels of a cellar in the heart of Liverpool called The Cavern. To say Liverpool was a hard city to grow up in would be an understatement, anger and resentment hung over the city like a dark cloud, times were tough throughout the UK and Liverpool was just one of many working class cities that was struggling with a wartime hangover. Discipline was the order of the day, conformity a must, follow orders and do as you are told was embedded in the psyche. You must conform or pay the price and most of all remember where in society you fit, the class system expects you to play your part and get on with it. There is no room for anarchy the country expects you to do your bit after all the government knows what’s best for you is the message, what is it you don’t understand? Your social class determined where you lived and your primary schooling would shape your future, your childhood dreams of success no matter how ambitious are taken away and put into the “who do you think you are” category like an orphan from a Dickens novel. Thankfully those days are behind us now but it was not that long ago that this mindset existed. Back in the 50’s and 60’s in the UK the education system in its infinite wisdom had decided that all school children finishing primary school must sit for exams called the eleven plus which would define the educational path you entered into, success (passing) meant winning the ‘Golden Ticket’ and yes this statement is meant to be a reference to ‘Willy Wonka’ as the stupidity of the system resembles a fairy story and failure (not passing) meant mediocrity in education. Successful students moved into the College system providing a pathway to university and beyond, sadly failure meant secondary school an inferior mode of education aimed at herding students through and out into the world of manual labour or the trades if you were lucky at the age of 15. So at the age of 11 the quality of your primary schooling along with the ability to pass an exam would be instrumental and the key to your future. How absolutely absurd and thank God this archaic system is well and truly defunct and today’s generation has equal opportunities to move on academically whenever they feel ready. I have to admit that my primary school years did nothing to prepare me for what lay ahead, was it the system that let me down or was I just not cut out for academia. I suppose these days I would have been diagnosed with dyslexia as the 3 R’s seemed to have passed me by without registering and my only clear memory of attending primary school was the day I was escorted off the school grounds by my class teacher and being told to go home and change having shit my pants, not my proudest moment but control and concentration obviously were not my strongest points. I unfortunately became a casualty of the system having fell at the 11 plus hurdle and was eventually thrust into the secondary school caldron and labeled by my educators along with everyone else a waste of space, a failure and a total loser. Secondary schools housed mainly non achievers either through the misfortune of failing a one off exam or more often than not a load of thick muppets who hated the world and considered education a waste of time, the 3 R’s were not as important to them as having enough grease to keep their Elvis Presley hair styles in place. Sadly the school that I attended falls into the latter and on day one of my attendance at this institute of learning (tongue in cheek) saw me man handled by the older boys who like Vultures survived on the rich pickings of fresh meat that happened to walk into the school grounds. I was duly set upon and dragged across the schoolyard before being deposited down the coke chute and into the bowels of the furnace room where I remained for the first lesson of the day with ripped trousers and a face as black as Louis Armstrong’s bottom. It goes without saying that my senior school years were not and I stress not my favourite times apart from playing football where the kicking at least was controlled, I spent most of my school attendance trying not to be beaten up or have my dinner money stolen. I found having to pay protection money to some spotty moron who thought a Caesarean Section was a district in Rome didn't help my educational aspirations and my thoughts were like those of a prisoner chalking out the days, weeks, months and years of his sentence on his cell wall till it was time to be released. The sheer Joy I felt when I turned 15 having reached the end of my sentence and the education custodians had seen fit to release me out into the real world, was overwhelming, I felt so much joy that I had survived and my time had been served I was now about to become a free man, poorly educated, very bruised and no qualifications but free.
By Roy Travers2 years ago in Education
Love and passion in France
There has been many historic sporting achievements throughout my lifetime some of which I’ve read about and some I have been privileged to have witnessed, incredible feats that changed not only individual lives but changed the psyche of nations. Such events as the Australian Socceroos heroic performance against Uruguay in 2006 which finally saw them reaching the Football World Cup finals in Germany for the first time since 1974 after 32 years of failure saw their disappointment and heartache forgotten as they participated in and on the Worlds greatest sporting stage. Skeletons have been firmly put back in their closets and the late, great Johnny Warren can now rest in peace. The eyes of the football World will be firmly fixed on these conquering heroes from ‘Down Under’ and this great land of ours will experience nothing like it since the Sydney Olympics. A nation will be united, cultural differences will be put to one side and the nations heart will beat as one as we watch every ball kicked and every tackle made. Emotions will overflow and tears will be shed, but I doubt the love and passion I experienced at the 1998 World Cup finals in France will ever be felt from supporting our champions from the other side of the globe, experiences from the most controversial World Cup finals held, memories that changed my life forever. Witnessing Brazils biggest defeat in World Cup football, the celebrations on the streets of Paris after Frances historic win. The disbelief in reports of Ronaldo the world’s greatest footballer swallowing his tongue through pre-match nerves and how the hatred of a nation turned onto a young English player for being sent off after a moment’s loss of control. Not since USA 94 and the senseless shooting of Colombia’s Escobar has so much controversy surrounded the finals of a World Cup. But there was another story in France that was not reported on, not a story of “German Nazi Hooligans” or rampaging “British Lager Louts”. But a story of true dedication, a story of love and sheer determination to be part of one of the greatest show on earth, a story I’m sure that was bigger than anything to come out of Sydney during the Olympics or is likely to come out of Beijing in 2008. What story could be bigger than breaking Olympic World records? The answer is quite simple, I survived four weeks in a two-man tent! “Big deal” I can hear you mutter. “The man’s gone mad” how can this be bigger than Australia’s own Cathy Freeman winning the 400 metres or Thorpy and company breaking world records at the drop of a hat? Let me start by clearing up a misunderstanding, the term two-man tent is a loose interpretation used by what I can only describe as the psychotic descendant of a tribe of pygmies who was impersonating a Camping and Adventure Salesman, who assured me that the picture on the box was not and I repeat not the actual size. It soon became obvious to me that I actually owned a pair of underpants, which had more room in them. Therefore when contemplating living in a canvas jockstrap firstly take the contents out of the packet and examine prior to reaching your desired destination. Now for someone who hasn’t actually bonded with Mother Nature for over thirty years, spending four weeks in a pair of Y-fronts can be very traumatic, and the memory has a habit of twisting the truth. My head was full of distorted scouting memories, sitting around campfires drinking cocoa and singing “ging gang gilly gilly” and sleeping all feet to the pole! I now know modern tents don’t have poles, probably because there is nothing to hold up and having reached France with my accommodation such as it was firmly in place minus the pole and my sleeping bag unfolded it was time to catch up on some well deserved rest. Sleeping in a padded condom directly on the ground is like trying to sleep on top of a bag of walnuts and it soon became clear to me that sponge matting is highly recommended. The camping grounds in France are of a high standard and offer all the conveniences a camper could want, showers, toilets and a shop to purchase all your food supplies such as beans, spaghetti and soup. It soon became obvious that you should never go camping without plates, cutlery and a can opener or at the very least your genuine Swiss Army multi functional knife; it can be very embarrassing having to ask your fellow campers if they can open your dinner for you. So I made some basic mistakes and sure the tent was small and I should have known that terra firma is bumpy and that cans are difficult to open without the recommended tools, but there is one more lesson to be learnt if you are thinking of ever going on a camping holiday, never and I repeat never go camping without a toilet roll, campsites offer excellent clean amenities but do not supply toilet paper in the cubicles. Sadly sitting on the throne with only a pair of shorts hanging around your ankles is not the ideal situation to find yourself in as it is highly unlikely you will have your trusty French phrase book available at the time “parlez vous anglaise, parlez vous anglais” World records will continue to be broken at the next Olympics in China and new heroes will emerge in Germany.Yes Ronaldo’s fears were overcome, Beckham was forgiven and my lower back actually did eventually respond to treatment. But there is one thing I’m sure of, we will all be back with a passion supporting some great event in the future either from the luxury of our lounge rooms or actually in person but remember please whichever sport you decide on I hope you choose your accommodation wisely.
By Roy Travers2 years ago in Wander
The boy who lost his bathers
Child abuse can come in many forms, sometimes as a deliberate act and sometimes out of ignorance and love, unfortunately in my case the latter was true and too much love had almost been responsible for the demise of my young life. But how can too much love be detrimental, can you kill someone with kindness? My mother doted on me her youngest child and some would say she spoiled me, unlike my older sibling who was now into his late teens I was unplanned I’d just turned 10 and was seen as my parents little miracle, the apple of my mothers eye, an unexpected gift from the Gods she would tell everyone. There is 8 years between myself and my older sibling who has already left home to house-share with his fellow Uni student friends. So she wrapped me up in cotton wool, doted on me and tried to protect her little ‘soldier’ from the dangers of life. She would still be wiping my backside for me if she could, she still tries to clean behind my ears and if she could would brush my teeth for me every morning, nothing was too much trouble for her miracle child. She would knit jumpers for me, make sure I had all the up to date designer trainers, branded tops and as every ten year old child needs the latest haircut, to say I was spoilt would be an understatement I was surely teetering on the edge of child abuse and was definitely in danger of being killed with kindness. To add further strain on my forth coming demise my mother had decided as a surprise to knit a pair of personalised bathing trunks for me for my upcoming school trip to a remote beach in North Wales. Now the Welsh coast can be rather chilly in October and to describe it as a beach is a little confusing as the word beach conjures up visions of long white sandy expanse and the so called beach the school was intending to visit was actually a pebble beach, there was no sand just a grass verge were you could set up and have a picnic with space to put some chairs and place your towels which then falls away and leads on to 15 yards of pebbles which had to be crossed before merging into the Irish sea. Our teachers set up some wind breaks along the grassy verge which gave the students protection from the elements as well as privacy to change into our bathers before attempting the ordeal of traversing the rocky mine field. My newly knitted bathers looked spectacular, deep burgundy with two white stripes that ran vertically down the sides and were kept up by a brilliant black, red and yellow snake belt. I was ecstatic about my bathers they were warm but best of all they were adorned with the most exquisite multi-coloured snake belt, my mum had done me proud. The school group had now all changed into their bathers and one by one gingerly left the safety of the grass verge and began crawling over the pebbles oohing and grimacing as we attempted to reach the waters edge with the words of encouragement penetrating the wind coming from the teachers who by now were well and truly wrapped up in their deckchairs offering advice ‘get in you wimps the waters not cold’ Well, I learnt a big lesson that day in fact I learnt three big lessons, one that my teachers don’t always tell the truth, secondly woollen trunks don’t work in water and thirdly the Irish sea isn’t cold, it’s bloody freezing. Standing waist high in the icy waters my quivering lips began turning blue while it took all of my concentration to keep my bathing trunks from completely disappearing into the depths of Davy Jones locker. It soon dawned on me that the bathers my mother had knitted for me were not up to the job of affective and efficient swimwear, sure while on dry land they looked amazingly smart especially with the snake belt accessory but they had now proven to be as big a danger as the iceberg was to the Titanic. Another lesson learnt wool apparently retains and soaks up water like a sponge and as I struggled to turn around and find the safety of the pebbles I felt himself being dragged deeper into the freezing water and unable to take another step as the woollen trunks became like a knitted anchor strapped to my waist. There could only be one answer to my problem I had to abandon ship or to be more precise drop and kick off the woollen menace that clawed at my torso if I was ever going to make it back to the safety of the pebbles, after all nakedness no matter how embarrassing was a better alternative to drowning. As I tried to escape from the icy depths all thoughts of looking cool and imitating Daniel Craig emerging from the ocean in Casino Royale had diminished and had now been replaced by the sad image of myself with blue lips, shivering as I felt my testicles retreating so far into my naked body I was sure I had two lumps protruding from my neck. The immediate danger of drowning had now subsided as I stumbled my way towards the stoney shoreline minus my woollen anchor, but alas further peril awaited upon reaching the water’s edge for as I stood there as naked as the day I was born the little matter of crossing 15 yards of sharp pebbles needed to be traversed before the safety of the grass verge and a warm dry towel could be reached and freedom from danger truly achieved. As difficult as it was I managed to cross that rocky outreach while clinging on to what was left of my manhood and avoiding complete naked embarrassment. As I struggled to dress with numbed digits and the howls of laughter ringing in my ears I finally began to thaw out and my blue lips thankfully returned to a more healthy shade of pink and the feeling was now slowly returning to my fingers and toes. The imaginary lumps in my throat had returned to their normal position and the giggles from my peers and sadly this included my teachers began to subside, I finally left that North Wales coast along with my school group a slightly embarrassed but wiser young man minus one pair of lovingly knitted bathers and a rather smart snake belt.
By Roy Travers2 years ago in Confessions