I can remember it, now, as if it were yesterday.
Yes, I know you hear that all of the time, but, if I close my eyes tight enough, I’m back in time to Whitsun, 1977. Almost a man at the age of six and three-quarters, my sister and I were on school holidays, with the big six-week break just a few weeks away.
We were going to Weston-Super-Mare that summer, I recall. I'd overheard our folks talking about going to ‘Western’. Oh, how disappointed was I when my mom explained in the Cortina on the A5 that there weren’t going to be Wigwams, Cowboys or Indians when we got there?! I digress, sorry; that was to be in July, but here we are only in May.
The sun was glaring down, tanning the ass off the grass, Woolworths were anticipating another “’76” and their shelves were crammed with suntan lotion, water pistols and swimming trunks and my dad had just told me to put my first purple chopper away.
Which I thought was totally unreasonable: I had wanted to ride it to Bradley Park to play football with Stu & Dean; he wanted to take my sister and I to the cinema to see Star Wars. In this weather!
But, it was the holiday week, we rarely got to see him (he was working on ‘the insurance’ and we were nearly always in bed when he got home) and I think mom had had enough of me bringing everyone in for a soda-stream.
So, we agreed to go, me and Kirsty, my sister. At that age, she (having just turned four) agreed with everything I said (that didn’t last much longer!), and I was about to have my first encounter with ‘The Force’.
So, I put on my (imitation) leather pilot jacket, white t-shirt and blue jeans and The Black Country’s mini-me of Arthur Fonzerelli was about to hit the picture house for the very first time.