And, giggling, they would rush off to the Ladies.

Modesty restored, they would return to the floor

And dance demurely, with a poise we could not match

We boys, who stood pretending not to watch.

Then half an hour or so before the Last Waltz

The DJ would put on some rock ’n’ roll

And emboldened with ale, we’d form a ring.

Eyes closed, they’d spin, those girls, skirts swirling high

To reveal… Need I go on? Mid-fifties.

You’ve seen the pictures, heard the songs.

In the spotlight of our lascivious gaze

Fired by the rhythm, our whistles and screeches

Down south, suddenly, everything is peaches.

Spitting Prohibited

When I was a boy (cue Brass Band)

A notice downstairs on every bus and tram

Said: NO SMOKING. SPITTING PROHIBITED.

Then overnight, or so it seemed, things changed.

The second part was painted over

And the sign said simply: NO SMOKING.

Imagine that first morning, when passengers,

Bleary-eyed, looked up and saw,

By omission, an invitation.

Then did everybody, unrestrained,

Leap up, clear their throats and let rip?

Expectorate to their lungs’ content?

Did drip, dribble, spurt and spatter?

Hawk and croak until the windows were steaming

And the passageways awash?

Transport Committee met and unanimously agreed

That every by-law be clearly stated

And the notice then to read:

NO SMOKING. SPITTING PROHIBITED.

PLEASE REFRAIN FROM URINATING AND DEFECATING,

SOLICITING AND IMPORTUNING.

FORNICATION AND BESTIALITY FORBIDDEN.

ARSON, RAPE AND PILLAGE NOT PERMITTED.

(STRICTLY, NO BRASS BANDS.)

How to Become a Sixer

Wait until Akela is out of the room

and the noise level begins to rise.

As soon as you hear returning footsteps

call out in a loud, clear voice:

‘Quiet everybody. We promised to get on

with things in silence. DYB. DYB. DYB. Remember?’

By now the footsteps will have stopped

and the Pack looking to see if you are being serious.

Ignore them, and use the pause

to do something useful, like tying a knot.

Akela will then make stamping noises

and open the door. Everything is shipshape.

Acknowledge the appraising glance

but appear embarrassed, as if you wished

you could bite your tongue off.

Promotion will quickly follow. And disappointment:

Akela in a tent, unfurling his knob.

Dirty Old Bugger. DOB. DOB. DOB.

Maurice

There were no ‘gays’ in those days, only ‘funny’ men.

Enter Mrs Thomas: ‘He’s a bit effeminate

That Maurice. “Funny”, if you ask me.

Bringing his “friend” home on leave

The two of them in bed and her bringing in the tea.

His own mother not knowing. It will end in tears.

What do they call themselves nowadays?

Course, she brought it all on herself. (Queers!

That’s it.) Spoiled from the word go.

Too nesh to play out in the street.

The other boys were rough, and Ho! Ho!

He might be led astray. Him, led astray?

Mind you, it’s none of my business

Live and let live, that’s what I say.