Phil, 67, and Joe, 62, walk their dogs around the park every afternoon at around the same time, throwing sticks for the dogs and insults at each other. Phil spent a lifetime working in the print business, apprenticed straight out of school to a typesetter. Joe spent most of his life at sea, working fishing boats out of small Cornish ports until the last few years, when he moved back to the town he grew up in and got work emptying recycling bins for the local council. They met three years ago and, in the way that men do, only slowly got to know each other, using their dogs—a golden labrador called Campbell for Phil and an Alsatian named Gabby for Joe—as the main source of conversational material.
For the first time, this week, they got to discussing their teen years, in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Turns out that one of them was a Rocker and the other a Mod. Phil was the Rocker, which might seem a little odd, given that he was the one with the middle-class dog, apprenticed occupation and smart outdoor jacket worn just to walk the dog. 'I had no money for clothes', he told Joe. 'I had one whistle and that was for Sunday afternoons, taking the bird to the pictures. I had my first big motorbike when I turned 18 and wore my jeans, leather jacket and workbooks for riding that. It was only the mummy's boys who were Mods, they had to get their clothes bought for them 'cops none of us had money to waste'.
'Hang on,' Joe spluttered, 'I weren't no mummy's boy, I spent me wages on clothes because I wanted to look smart, and jeans were for work, not going out in. I had a Parka so my suit wouldn't get dirty on the scooter. My old man never went out to the pub or anywhere except in a suit and he wouldn't let us kids out of the house in scruffy gear if we were going drinking or dancing'.
'Bah', Phil stopped and threw his hands up in the air. 'No-one ever had any money for shirts that cost as much as they did in Carnaby Street. I went there once and had a look and it were £35 for a bleeding' shirt! I was only earning a tenner a week, and some of that went to mum for me keep. The rest went on beer and birds. I fixed the bike meself'.
'What you like', Joe laughed, 'I didn't pay that much, I got it all round here (waving in the general direction of the town), from local shops and the local tailor. I rode on my mate's scooter 'cos I was only 14. Couldn't get served in Pubs, but did love the dancing and the girls liked it too'.
'I tell you what, you never hear people saying that in the 60s they didn't have enough money for all that clobber, do you? Yeah, it was a problem getting birds to ride on the back of me bike', Phil sniffed. 'I couldn't wait 'til I had enough money to buy a car—I had a Morris Oxford with spots and everything, which birds loved to ride around in. But we'd ride our bikes to the seaside on Bank Holidays, try to avoid those oiks on their hairdryers, have a lash-up, ride the dodgers and Whip, maybe get a tattoo: here's the three dots I got on the pier at Yarmouth. Outside that place the ground was covered in spew where blokes had gone in drunk, come out tattooed and been sick'. Phil pulled back his North Face down jacket cuff to reveal three tiny blue dots above his right wrist bone.
'Was you sick, then?'
'Nah, I was drunk but not that bad. Had another one done next year. Where's your dog gone?
'Gabby! Come on, home'.
'Campbell! See you tomorrow then'.
'See you tomorrow".
Very nice piece.
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