AT the end of the Fifties, my dad was promoted by British Railways to Peterborough, which, luckily for us, was a town in Britain.
My new school, West Town Children Building, was in the same town where our house was, thank goodness. We’d walk there and back, using just our British feet, with my younger sister being British in her pram.
It took a good 20 minutes because we did not have a yummy mummy and a 4×4. But we didn’t complain because complaining was against the law and punishable by having to live in a loud and colourful neighbourhood.
The school was made of purpose-built bricks and had doors where you could go in and out, mostly without being felt-up by some pervert.
The walls were half-tiled, like public toilets but without the phone numbers of promiscuous homosexuals.
I can’t remember a time the school was ever closed. It was even open during the night, when it would be used vigorously by Enoch Powell.
I have memories of trudging through thick snow to school in just a pair of wet woollen gloves attached to a really lovely piece of string my uncle had smuggled out of Dresden.
I’ll never forget that string and all the British things we did together.
Meanwhile, we’d never heard of halal and whenever anyone mentioned it, we’d run as fast we could into Woolworths and hide behind the largest woman in the shop…
Richard Littlejohn’s Lost World of Bollocks is now available for people who shout at the news.
