World War 2 had seen a fair few changes brought about in the area my mates and I lived in. Most of these came courtesy of short sighted Luftwaffe bomb aimers trying to hit the more militarily strategic targets of the local chocolate factory and the corner sweet shop as revenge for being short changed on a bag of mint humbugs in 1938 and as a result there were several patches of ground that had become acquainted with large lumps of Krupps steel and high explosive. This being the mid 1970s meant that although hostilities had ceased some thirty or so years earlier no-one had quite got around to deciding what to do with the overgrown, bramble covered areas and derelict houses as they were all too busy going on strike or leering at the female form at the local flea-pit which was showing ‘Confessions of a Window Cleaner’ or some such classic British smut. As a result, us kids had a plethora of playgrounds provided for us by the local councils apathy, smut obsessed planners and a couple of Herman Goerings finest who had forgotten to visit the opticians in 1940.
The ‘Hippy House’ sat like a strange, grey concrete lump on one such patch of explosively redeveloped land. As kids we were warned to stay away from it, probably in case being in close proximity to it made us suddenly want to abandon our Raleigh Choppers and flared Jeans, discover purple loon pants and a buy ticket to Woodstock instead. Mixing with the gypsy kids who stabled their horses on a similarly bomb damaged area of land down the road and who apparently had no parents nor a need to attend any of the local schools was fine but hippies, dangerous creatures, we might be dancing with flowers in our hair before we knew it.
Then, one day, completely out of the blue, the hippies left, presumably in a moment of rebellion they had exchanged their lifestyle of tie-dyed shirts and free love for that of a suit, tie and a double entry ledger. Our parents could no longer ban us from having a look. Even better a few months earlier we had moved a few streets away so my parents wouldn’t know. The house and its environs became a magnet, even more so as my friends John and Dave and I, being the militarily obsessed kids we were had recognized that some of the windows were actually cockpit parts from a Lancaster bomber. Where the ‘hippies’ had found them we didn’t know although one of the older members of the community who was probably once called Squadron Leader Moonbeam Flowerchild instead of ‘Squiffy’ or ‘Battler’ might have forgotten to give the plane back after the war ended. Suffice it to say we became convinced the rest of the aircraft must be around there somewhere and its treasures would be ours. A couple of .303 machineguns would make short work of the school bully. Thus one sunny summer holiday morning in the absence of anything better to do what with games consoles having not yet arrived having seen the Flash Gordon serial about six times before, we set off to find the ‘lost bomber’ along with another friend, Mark.
Poking around the now abandoned house it became obvious there was nothing there apart from a rather moth eaten sofa and a very strange, almost organic smell that seemed to have infused itself into the walls so we decided to have an explore of the rest of the area. The houses next door were abandoned and awaiting demolition as they had been doing since the Luftwaffes last excursion and there might be treasure in there or the rest of the Lancaster or even better, a Mosquito. We might be famous and get in the papers when we found it.
Gaining entry to the nearest house was easy. We lowered Mark and a lamp from one of our bikes down the coal chute into the cellar. It didn’t look like a particularly long drop as the house was almost identical to the one I had lived in up the road and I had often slid down the chute when I got locked out. Anyway, Mark was expendable as at that time he wasn’t a regular member of the gang. Once he had confirmed the cellar was clear of zombies, vampires, winos or unexploded bombs the rest of us followed.
It soon became clear that the house contained neither the remains of a WW2 aircraft nor a hoard of treasure. In fact it contained nothing barring a dead pigeon, a whole lot of mouse droppings, a rather dodgy looking mattress and a small stack of late 60s magazines of the 'artistic' variety, probably stashed there by one of the hippies who wasn’t getting his fair share of free love. It also became horribly clear that we were not getting out of the house either. The doors and windows had been nailed shut and boarded over and we discovered that the coal chute was completely un-climbable after best part of an hour trying to shove Mark back up it being as he was the youngest and smallest. In fact, the only window that we could open was in the attic and these being big Georgian houses meant that it was some forty plus feet above the pavement so we only one choice. Mark burst into tears and the rest of us brave explorers turned into a bunch of big girls and screamed for help.
We certainly got into the papers, next day the local rag gave us half a column inch ‘Fire brigade rescues four boys who became trapped in a derelict building. Residents call for demolition to prevent tragedy’. Oh and to add insult to injury, we were hauled over the coals by the attending firemen, our parents and the local bobby who had been dragged out of the greasy spoon cafe around the corner in the middle of his elevenses to attend the scene.
However, next term at school we were the heroes of the hour, not because our exploits got us into the paper, more to do with the fact that John had the presence of mind to stuff half a dozen of the vintage jazz mags up his jumper just before the firemen had kicked the door in and now we were renting them out at 10p a night to the other kids. Fortune and glory may not have been ours for the taking but we were doing very nicely as purveyors of the finest filth to most of the school.
The ‘Hippy House’ sat like a strange, grey concrete lump on one such patch of explosively redeveloped land. As kids we were warned to stay away from it, probably in case being in close proximity to it made us suddenly want to abandon our Raleigh Choppers and flared Jeans, discover purple loon pants and a buy ticket to Woodstock instead. Mixing with the gypsy kids who stabled their horses on a similarly bomb damaged area of land down the road and who apparently had no parents nor a need to attend any of the local schools was fine but hippies, dangerous creatures, we might be dancing with flowers in our hair before we knew it.
Then, one day, completely out of the blue, the hippies left, presumably in a moment of rebellion they had exchanged their lifestyle of tie-dyed shirts and free love for that of a suit, tie and a double entry ledger. Our parents could no longer ban us from having a look. Even better a few months earlier we had moved a few streets away so my parents wouldn’t know. The house and its environs became a magnet, even more so as my friends John and Dave and I, being the militarily obsessed kids we were had recognized that some of the windows were actually cockpit parts from a Lancaster bomber. Where the ‘hippies’ had found them we didn’t know although one of the older members of the community who was probably once called Squadron Leader Moonbeam Flowerchild instead of ‘Squiffy’ or ‘Battler’ might have forgotten to give the plane back after the war ended. Suffice it to say we became convinced the rest of the aircraft must be around there somewhere and its treasures would be ours. A couple of .303 machineguns would make short work of the school bully. Thus one sunny summer holiday morning in the absence of anything better to do what with games consoles having not yet arrived having seen the Flash Gordon serial about six times before, we set off to find the ‘lost bomber’ along with another friend, Mark.
Poking around the now abandoned house it became obvious there was nothing there apart from a rather moth eaten sofa and a very strange, almost organic smell that seemed to have infused itself into the walls so we decided to have an explore of the rest of the area. The houses next door were abandoned and awaiting demolition as they had been doing since the Luftwaffes last excursion and there might be treasure in there or the rest of the Lancaster or even better, a Mosquito. We might be famous and get in the papers when we found it.
Gaining entry to the nearest house was easy. We lowered Mark and a lamp from one of our bikes down the coal chute into the cellar. It didn’t look like a particularly long drop as the house was almost identical to the one I had lived in up the road and I had often slid down the chute when I got locked out. Anyway, Mark was expendable as at that time he wasn’t a regular member of the gang. Once he had confirmed the cellar was clear of zombies, vampires, winos or unexploded bombs the rest of us followed.
It soon became clear that the house contained neither the remains of a WW2 aircraft nor a hoard of treasure. In fact it contained nothing barring a dead pigeon, a whole lot of mouse droppings, a rather dodgy looking mattress and a small stack of late 60s magazines of the 'artistic' variety, probably stashed there by one of the hippies who wasn’t getting his fair share of free love. It also became horribly clear that we were not getting out of the house either. The doors and windows had been nailed shut and boarded over and we discovered that the coal chute was completely un-climbable after best part of an hour trying to shove Mark back up it being as he was the youngest and smallest. In fact, the only window that we could open was in the attic and these being big Georgian houses meant that it was some forty plus feet above the pavement so we only one choice. Mark burst into tears and the rest of us brave explorers turned into a bunch of big girls and screamed for help.
We certainly got into the papers, next day the local rag gave us half a column inch ‘Fire brigade rescues four boys who became trapped in a derelict building. Residents call for demolition to prevent tragedy’. Oh and to add insult to injury, we were hauled over the coals by the attending firemen, our parents and the local bobby who had been dragged out of the greasy spoon cafe around the corner in the middle of his elevenses to attend the scene.
However, next term at school we were the heroes of the hour, not because our exploits got us into the paper, more to do with the fact that John had the presence of mind to stuff half a dozen of the vintage jazz mags up his jumper just before the firemen had kicked the door in and now we were renting them out at 10p a night to the other kids. Fortune and glory may not have been ours for the taking but we were doing very nicely as purveyors of the finest filth to most of the school.
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