That reminds me

When this first came out, I had so many people, from all parts of the UK, telling me that they had similar memories of their own.

"We'd been as thorough as usual, and looking forward to yet another enjoyable November 5, which was why we didn't want to see the results of all our endeavours spoiled by a "raid" from a rival street's gang, particularly the "Milties" from the next crescent!

The street rivalry was, of course, all part of the fun. And in trying to "out-do" the neighbouring street's efforts, a little bit of sabotage was regularly on the cards.

If you could, somehow, manage to disembowel a neighbouring street's beacon, it was deemed to be a real coup for your side.

But, to be fair, the "game" was always played under strict ground rules. There was an accepted code of practice. It was implicitly understood that no raid could take place during school hours. Such an occurrence was considered highly unethical. So, all plots, and counter plots, had to be carried out at a time when all participants were available to meet, and defend, any manoeuvres.

And that's why, at that dinner table, when I explained to my mother that it was my turn to be on bonfire guard, she accepted, and understood exactly what it meant. It meant the difference between the boys in our Crescent walking tall... or hiding away in shame until Xmas!

On that evening though, guarding a bonfire wasn't the only important item on the agenda. There was going to be an added attraction. A once-in-a-lifetime (of a 10-year-old boy) never to be repeated, bonus event.

An event which had been giving me hot flushes for days, an event, the thought of which, had earlier caused me to choke on a sausage, an event I dare not mention to my parents, especially my mother!

At last, the meal was finished, and I was ready to go. "Don't forget to wrap up well," my mother's concerned voice somehow seeped into the back room of my brain. I was hearing, but not really listening.

"It's going to be bitterly cold tonight, so, if you're going to be sitting up there on the Gunkle for two or three hours, it'll be freezing."

The facts, as I remember them, are as follows; they may, through the mists of passing time, have become somewhat clouded, but this is the story of what happened that night. Only the names have been changed, to protect the not quite so innocent.

Firstly, the Gunkle. For those reading this who aren't aware what, or where, it was, here's a brief description.

To us kids, the Gunkle was our very own Disneyland. It was a desert island, with buried treasure, surrounded by boy-eating sharks.

It was a World War 2 battlefield, with ready-made POW camps (concrete tanks) to break into and escape from. It was Mount Everest to climb up and slide down.

It was a jungle swamp, full of alligators (rolls of old lino) It was the site for the Battle of the Little Bighorn (until a tearful 7-year-old "General Custard" ran home, carrying his home-made wooden musket, complaining that "it wasn't fair that he always had to get killed in the end).

The Gunkle was whatever we wanted it to be.

It was a half-acre piece of raised ground, overgrown, at the bottom of Vicary Crescent, overlooking, on one side, the waters of the Pill, and on another side, the Wards Shipbreaking Yard.

What we didn't know, as kids, was the history behind it. It was built in 1644, by Royalists, to prevent Parliamentarian forces from landing at Pembroke Castle and as protection from Irish raiders. Mentioned in several books about Milford Haven and Pembs, it is also thought it may have once been an Iron Age Fort.

I'm sure if we'd known all that we'd have added even more games to our repertoire.

Surprisingly, it was the first time we'd chosen the Gunkle as our "Bonfire Night" stage, and, as I left the house that night, stepping outside into the cold, murky darkness, well muffled up and with a torch in my pocket, my dad's words followed me "If it gets too cold up there, you and your pals can always light your bonfire!"

My sardonic snort probably went unheard, as Tiny, my scruffy, black mongrel, and I, headed off to the adventure I had been so impatiently anticipating.

I got delayed slightly, having caught sight of the neighbour's cat, perched menacingly on top of our pigeon loft, like some salivating Sylvester waiting to pounce on Tweetie Pie. Automatically, I picked up and hurled a stone at the would-be bird assassin, before realising that our neighbour was in her garden taking in washing off the clothesline. Fearing the worst, I held my breath as the missile missed her cat by a whisker and mercifully missed her by a sheet!

Luckily, she had not seen me… nor had she heard the stone thump, silently, into the middle of her Omo bright linen sheet, before dropping harmlessly onto her lawn.

She must have been scratching her head when she got round to doing her ironing… wondering where the muddy stain had come from… But she only had her cat to blame… didn't she? Somehow, I doubt whether she, nor my mother would have seen it that way.

It did not matter anyway; I'd succeeded in scaring off her marauding moggy… the evening was already going well.

I suppose now is the time to explain the events leading up to that night, so that you, the reader, can fully grasp the complete picture.

At that time, there were no girls in our gang. Girls were not any good with catapults, nor bows and arrows... girls couldn't climb down the steepest side of the Gunkle... girls didn't enjoy boys' games like crab walking over the edge of the Mine Depot Bridge. At least… that's how it seemed to us… any games they did take part in they spoiled by changing the rules to suit themselves.

I suppose, in a way, they were already developing "Thatcherism"… so generally speaking, girls were avoided at all costs.

I still shuddered when recalling the traumatic experience, I'd had with the opposite sex in 1948, when I was a mere 4-year-old "male chauvinist piglet."

Funnily enough, that, too, had happened around Guy Fawkes time.

I was a shy, short-trousered sprog, in the first year at the North Road Infants School, still coming to terms with the unexpected separation from the bosom of my home, even if only for a few hours a day.

On this particular day, for some inexplicable reason, in between making us build plasticine people and sketch off pictures of odd-looking trees, our teacher, a woman who was either very brave... or completely bonkers, announced to the class that we were all going to enjoy a game of "Georgy Porgy."

More next week.

My thanks to Les Haynes, Joyce Layton, and Anne and Jets Llewellyn, for getting in touch to say the answer to last week's Fifties teaser was SOOTY.

If you feel like joining in the Fifties Fun, try this one.

Which husband and wife team spread a little Kitchen Magic in the Fifties?

I will leave you with a snap of the Gunkle, facing Wards Yd, and it's very close to the actual spot where my story reached its dramatic climax.

Take care.