I loved that car, and I was sad to see it go. People would look at us whenever we were out in it and, in my mind, that just helped to enhance the magic of it. I never for one second thought the car was being looked at for any other reason than admiration. But, as Christmas approached in 1975, my dad decided it was time to sell his creation. No doubt the pressing matter of getting us kids presents played some part in that decision.
Christmas passed and my dad still had the car, which meant all his money was gone. Then he received a call from a traveller camp on the edge of Winsford.
My dad drove the car to the camp and haggled with the assembled men. It was New Year’s Eve. If he could sell the car, he and my mum could have a rare night out. The deal was struck and the car was sold. After the cash was handed over, my dad asked the inevitable question, ‘How do I get home from here?’ The camp was a fair distance from home and none of his friends was able to pick him up. Getting a taxi to come to a traveller camp was never an easy thing to do, so he asked the man to whom he had just sold the car to give him a lift home in it.
The man shook his head. ‘I’m not driving that till I’ve painted it, but I’ll give you a lift on that.’
He pointed to a Triumph motorbike. There are few things that my dad hates more than motorbikes, but with cash in his pocket and a do to get to, he took the offer and rode home pillion, clinging tight to the driver and with a smile on his face.
The effect of that car didn’t end after it was sold, because my dad used the money to take Eddie and me to the cinema for the first time ever. The film was Jaws, and we went because it was deemed too scary for the girls. I know, but it was 1975 and they probably had things to do in the kitchen.
I could not have been happier. I felt like we had won the pools. I was at a cinema watching the first film I had ever seen that wasn’t a Western. The cinema was in Northwich, a town about eight miles away from Winsford, and the fact that it was somewhere new only added to the excitement of the evening. I loved it when it was just us ‘boys’ together: I saw it as an opportunity to talk to the other men of the tribe about man-stuff like football, cars, conkers – things the girls in the family just wouldn’t understand. This time usually came on a Sunday afternoon, when we would sit in the living room eating our roast dinner watching the weekly Granada football highlights show called Kick Off, which Gerald Sinstadt commentated. It was required viewing for anyone who wanted to watch football whilst eating a Sunday roast and, as Gerald Sinstadt presented it for years, there is a whole generation of men who can’t help salivating as soon as they hear his voice.
I know at times my desire to use these sacred moments for conversation did mean that I became slightly irritating to Eddie and my dad, who had the serious business of football and food to concentrate upon, so a trip out to the cinema was a male bonding experience on a totally different level. I am sure I jabbered away in the car my dad had borrowed for the evening but, once inside the cinema, popcorn in hand, I was just enchanted by the experience, and any notion of bonding over conversation disappeared within seconds.
The film was brilliant, although it did have serious implications for my swimming in the sea for the rest of my life. Like many people, I cannot now put my head under water without hearing, ‘Durum, durum, durum.’ However, I had been introduced to the world of cinema, a world I love to this day. One of my favourite things is going to watch films in the day. I am 46, but it still makes me feel like I am skiving school.
The best car my dad ever had was the Moscovitch. This was a Russian car that embodied the Soviet Union prior to the Wall coming down. It was red for a start, although I am sure you could get different colours. Having said that, I never saw anyone else driving one, except my dad. It was square. Very square. The kind of square you see when a child tries to draw a car, and in all honesty I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that the car was designed by a six-year-old.
In 1970s Russia, passenger comfort obviously was not a priority: if you were not in your Moscovitch, what else would you be doing? Standing in a bread line dreaming about Levi’s jeans, probably. Everything about the car screamed function before purpose, the driver console being unattractive and full of things that could impale you in a collision, but I loved that car. I loved how solid it felt, which may in part be due to the tank metal it was made of. I loved that it was from the exotic Eastern Bloc that we were supposed to be scared of, but which I deduced could not be that bad if they had sold my dad a car. The car lacked mechanical sophistication to such an extent that when my dad lost the keys he began using a pair of scissors in the ignition to start the car. I actually thought my dad might be a Russian spy when he got it, and I allowed some of my mates to think the same.
But I mostly loved it because my dad did. One thing he appreciated the most was the lighter just below the dash-board, which you could press in and which would pop out when it was hot enough for my dad to light his cigarette as he drove. It was the most sophisticated thing I had ever seen. And I broke it.
Whilst sitting in the car waiting for my dad one day in Garston, Liverpool, I couldn’t resist pressing the lighter in. When it popped out, I decided to test how hot it was with the tip of my tongue. Yes, I did just write that. The tip of my tongue. You do not need to be medically qualified to guess the result. I burnt my tongue and it hurt like hell. But, after the initial pain, I was still sitting in the car with nothing to do, so I kept on pushing the lighter in and out until one time when it didn’t pop out again.
My dad returned to the car and immediately went to use the lighter. When it didn’t move, he used his strength to pull it. The internal coil unravelled and the lighter fell apart.
‘Have you been using this?’ my dad asked.
I tried to explain it wasn’t my fault, but due to the burnt tongue I just said, ‘Ummn dun nooo.’
My dad looked at me, and I knew that he knew I had broken it. He looked me in the eye for a moment, sighed and simply said, ‘I liked that lighter.’
Then we drove home. I loved that car because it always reminded me of my dad’s forgiveness and that ‘things’ don’t matter. People do. Even if those people can’t talk due to their own stupidity.
It was a sunny day early in the summer of 1974 and we all went for a family day out to the swimming baths in Winsford, where the pool was outside. These days, the concept of having an outdoor swimming pool in the north of England would seem crazy, and the fact that it is no longer there perhaps proves that such a venture would be like having a ski slope in the desert (I know they do in Dubai, but they cheat). However, my childhood seems to have been full of sunny days, and we spent many an afternoon at Winsford’s outdoor swimming baths.
As you entered the swimming pool, you were immediately struck by the brightness of it all. The diving board was painted red, and the bottom of the swimming pool was painted pale blue, which always gave the impression of freshness. There was a large pool housing the diving board, and it was a rite of passage one day to jump off the top. On this particular day – I would have been no more than seven – I had not reached the top, although I had gone halfway and was still edging up slowly. There was a shallow children’s swimming pool at the end, beyond which was a small shop where you could buy sweets.
It was here that I saw a friend from school. He had on a scuba mask and was playing in the children’s pool. We spoke for a while before I went back to the base my mum and dad had set up amongst the tables and benches, and where I knew there would be an endless supply of sandwiches and drink. My mum has always possessed the ability to make more sandwiches than she has bread. I know that defies logic, but it’s true. It’s a mum thing that they can just do. I