December in the ‘seventies
Waking early, scratching ice from the inside of my window
To see the snow.
Downstairs, the click and boof as the gas fire ignites
Then later,
polybagging down the slopes
of the bomb crater
Mass snowball fights
under yellow streetlights
Peeking at gifts
wrapped and hidden in the loft
Praying for a Raleigh Chopper
finding an Action Man.
Shivering in worn pine pews
For carols in the church
Rows of children, all confused
By Mary’s virgin birth.

Christmas Day:
Three channels on the telly
The Generation Game and Morecambe and Wise
Matchmakers and Mum’s mince pies
Dad smoking a Hamlet with a glass of Bell’s scotch
The Christmas special Top of the Pops
Slade, Wizzard, John and Yoko
Staying up late with a mug of cocoa

Through terraced streets to the Boxing Day match
Dads with beer crates for us young lads to stand on
And see our heroes duelling on the muddy pitch.
Snow falling like scattered jewels under the floodlights
Cigarette smoke swirling above terraces
The bestial baying of the crowd
And afterwards, win or lose,
Waiting in the corridors of back-street pubs
While the grown-ups drank;
The malty reek of Pedigree and Bass.

New Year’s Day at Gran and Grandad’s,
A two-up, two-down
In the old part of town
In the red brick yard, the icy toilet with an iron chain
The Anderson shelter still there from the war
Our big family crammed in the back room
Playing snap and Escalado,
Rummy and Crib.

Grandad puffing at his pipe
ruffling my hair as I left.
Cheerio old chap, he’d always say, lots of jungle juice.
I had no idea what that was. Asking was no use;
The grown-up world brimmed with such mysteries,
In those days, in the nineteen-seventies.

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