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Let me introduce my mate Daz, founder member of The Cow's Gate Gang. When we were twelve he was squat and snub-nosed with a blonde curly fleece on his bonce. He flourished on speed and persistency and lived on Vimto and truck Wheels during the day and fish and chips at night. He bragged in victory and shrugged defeat off thoughtlessly. He could afford to couldn't he ? His dad ran the village chip shop and drove a brand new N-reg Austin Allegro, all brown like Daz's flared nylon trousers which he revealed he got from Carnaby Street but what actually came out of his mum's Gratton catalog. My old lady asserted Daz's mummy got 10 per cent off, she was an agent, which is how Daz got the Space Hopper for his birthday while I got the blue anorak to go with my white roll-neck with the stripe down the side and an insider pocket barely big enough for a couple of Klackers. We were in the first year at Secondary Modern. The two of us failed the eleven plus. I didn't understand what it was. Initially I thought that it was a medicated shampoo like my pa used, Vosene or Loxene it was, had a green medical + on the glass bottle. Or was it those pills Mum sucked in the mornings to get her vacuuming off to a great start, Pro-plus. So we did this quiz thing for the future in class nine and next thing we knew we were at Swattenden with hards in crombies and armory scarves tucked in their belts, playing football with a tennis ball. And there's me and Daz still whistling Nights in White Satin and thinking our hipster belts were brill. Well, Daz was harder than me and had this capability to raise your spirits : Nah, he'd say, dont worry abard it. He was coarse but never wicked, always put his fish back alive and never threw stones at cats, only piles of mud. He had a cat of his very own see, a ginger podge called Curley Wurly because it chased its tail Daz lived four doors up from me down Barratt's Road, 100 orange brick council homes built just after the war. There were 20 boys our age to pick gangs and teams from and we pooled our Wembley Winners and Action Men to get the game running, otherwise we might drift in a cloud of boredom where the single thing that occurred was the council came and painted the front doors green or blue every five years or the Lyons maid van came jangling its tune : I love to go A-Wandering and Kojak the driver gave us the broken bits of Zooms out the bottom of his fridge. There were lots of us down Barratt's Road. Enough squirts to shoot with spud guns and tons of sisters to bomb with their own Play-doh who thought they were Emma Peel. We'd meet up the The Cow's Gate where allegiances shifted like the wind, but somehow me and Daz stayed loyal. He played centre half to my inside left. Billy Bremner to my Eddie gray We knew our town backwards too, but me and Daz had this ritual we'd carry out when our mums and pops had gone off to get more Green Shield Stamps. We showed one another over our houses, number 43 and number 51. From one room to another, each drawer and cupboardful, every box on the wardrobe, each bit and bob in the jars and envelopes. Daz showed me his folks secrets like every time was an Egyptian crypt. They were the first down our road to have a color telly, a massive great clod-hopper taking up a complete corner by the fish tank. Daz'd turn it on and we'd glance at the test card, all those colored squares. They had Rediffusion too, and of course, one day we found the envelope in the milk book drawer. The telly was rented. They'd a stereo too and they kept their records in plastic bags, every one put away in the sideboard. They used to play the theme tune to wagon de Valk and Daz's mum still listened to The Partridge Family. The centre piece was his old man's chair, a bright orange swiveller on a chrome pedestal, bucket formed, solid polysterene with a nylon stretch cover. We would play tail end Charlie in a Lancaster, spinning with our Lewis guns at German Fokkers, or Thunderbird 5 tracking Concorde sunk to the sea bed till Daz stated that it was time to go look in the loo at the smokers toothpower and eye-baths. His sister worked for Colgate Palmolive and there were stacks of free toothpaste she brought home in her Xmas bonus. His mum's girdles were in the airing cupboard, her false nails in a plastic box in the drugs cupboard. The hideous stuff was on the window sill, a row of white polystyrene heads with brown wigs. We'd run howling down the stairs at this, a game we called Ena Sharples's boudoir. Well, things were about to change. A new guy from Hastings was moving into no 17. I may tell you what happened next time.
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