Showing posts from July, 2013

Smoke and Mirrors

At the Roller Disco in the Parish Hall, there wasn’t  a smell of smoke. Yet.  Friends of mine were looking for a match. “My arse  and your face ” said one wag beating the old line to death. “ Seriously, lads, has anyone a light ?” Someone always had a damp box of matches in their Donkey -Jacket  pocket.   Or a torn off piece of the scarlet sand paper that would suffice.  Only an eegit would try the brown stuff.  The Hard Chaws bought their fags singly from Terrys Shop opposite the school, a no- brainer.  They struck safety matches off walls, or the tip of a shoe, or the zip on the fork of their turned up jeans. They hockered and spat, and smoked the fag cupped between the thumb and first finger, the better to get a good drag. Stop Horsing it, lave us a dogger will ya, fecks sake they would cry in anguish. Save us the butt will ya? Smoking back then did not carry quite the stigma it does now.  Oh, the days of an arched eyebrowed heroine in