Stretch Armstrong. Those fuckers who made him pretty much dared every kid to stretch him as far as possible. Result: millions of overstretched and broken Stretch Armstrongs all over the world on Boxing Day. Devastated.
got into trouble over that bloody toy. I stretched it so much the liquid stuff came out and went onto the carpet where it left a hard sticky irremovable stain.
Getting to about 12 years old and finally finding out that I could've been choosing my own choice of penny sweets to go in the 10p mix up bags from Georges (Oppo. and down the road a bit from The Oak), instead of purchasing the pre-made up bags.
I bought a wooden boomerang and it had instructions and a special blue dot on it that you had to put your thumb on, and a complicated way of holding the bloody thing as you threw it, but it still never came back. It ended up disappearing over someone’s fence overlooking the park, and that was the end of that.
He said he'd take me to the wrestling if he could get away after his Saturday morning shift in the docks. After a certain time it was obvious he'd been detained and I wouldn't be going.
A bit later, to the dulcet tones of Kent Walton it comes on the telly, and there he is sitting in the front row!
It was fun later though, hearing Nan extract what had detained him at work and hearing him literally hang himself in lies and subterfuge.
Being told that the local co-op would give you 50p for returning a shopping trolley. After finding and storing half a dozen abandoned trollies over the school holidays, I linked them together and pushed them the mile or so to the store on Westhorne Avenue to find out that it was complete bollocks. It has however made me appreciate the seemingly menial task undertaken by the fluorescent clad zombies in supermarket car parks up and down the country.
Stretch Armstrong. Those fuckers who made him pretty much dared every kid to stretch him as far as possible. Result: millions of overstretched and broken Stretch Armstrongs all over the world on Boxing Day. Devastated.
I read this as ‘Seth Armstrong’ and wondered what you were doing pulling emmerdales finest to pieces on Boxing Day.
The rare occasions that the page 3 girl in the sun had been moved to page 5 or 7 to accommodate small news stories like the Falklands or the salmonella outbreak. Made my blood boil when I was expecting Maria Whittaker but ended up with Margaret Thatcher or Edwina Curry.
My mum taking me to lunch at the revolving restaurant in the Post Office tower and discovering when we got there that you had to book (and probably that it was well out of our price range anyway). Did you really think you could just walk in there with a little kid, mum?
A stupid one, but why couldn't we have been like the cool kids families and have Unigate milk? Ours was delivered by the Coop. Not sure why, but it seemed important at the time.
I bought a wooden boomerang and it had instructions and a special blue dot on it that you had to put your thumb on, and a complicated way of holding the bloody thing as you threw it, but it still never came back. It ended up disappearing over someone’s fence overlooking the park, and that was the end of that.
Did you whistle Charlie Drake's tune on the way home?
Always being told to come home for my tea before the other kids. On one occasion everybody got home late except me and they all got grounded; so I may as well have stayed out anyway.
Comments
Me - "Erm, I think there's another caterpillar in me greens, I can see the luminous orange blood"
Nan - "It's cooked ain't it!"
edit: the above sentence sounds so wrong.
He said he'd take me to the wrestling if he could get away after his Saturday morning shift in the docks. After a certain time it was obvious he'd been detained and I wouldn't be going.
A bit later, to the dulcet tones of Kent Walton it comes on the telly, and there he is sitting in the front row!
It was fun later though, hearing Nan extract what had detained him at work and hearing him literally hang himself in lies and subterfuge.
After finding and storing half a dozen abandoned trollies over the school holidays, I linked them together and pushed them the mile or so to the store on Westhorne Avenue to find out that it was complete bollocks.
It has however made me appreciate the seemingly menial task undertaken by the fluorescent clad zombies in supermarket car parks up and down the country.
I'm mainly disappointed with my throwing technique. I throw like the stereotype of a girl.
On one occasion everybody got home late except me and they all got grounded; so I may as well have stayed out anyway.