Saturday Afternoon Fever
Since as long as I can remember Saturday afternoon has been synonymous with shopping in the town centre. When I was between the ages 8 and 10 this was a torturous ordeal which involved being dragged around town by our Susan (my big sister) to allow mum to get on with the cleaning in peace while dad disappeared somewhere for the day – apparently to his allotment. Susan - seven years older than me - like many teenage girls in the 80s, enjoyed looking around the clothes shops such as Chelsea Girl and Clockhouse. As an eight or nine year old boy I enjoyed it somewhat less and reluctantly traipsed behind her as she fluttered from shop to shop like a fashion butterfly. After what felt like a lifetime of window shopping (I don’t remember her ever buying much more than bits of cheap jewellery) we’d catch the 575 from the bus depot up to Chorley New Road near Bolton School to my Gran’s on Curzon Road. Once there, if we hadn’t grabbed a Greenhalgh’s pasty from the Arndale earlier, we’d be filled up with a Goblin pudding each and left to our own devices until Mum and Dad arrived at tea time.
There was never anything to do at Gran’s. No friends lived nearby, there was no bike to go out on, no football and only a few old and bettered board games to play with - nothing in the way of electronic entertainment that’s for sure. In fact, gran didn’t even have a vacuum cleaner but still used a carpet sweeper which seemed to just spread the dust around the room rather than clean it up. There was a telly (and it was colour) but on a Saturday afternoon in the early 80s all it had to offer was Grandstand or World of Sport which only seemed to show an endless stream of horseracing and wrestling. I have to say that after a busy week at school, Saturday morning wasn’t the most exhilarating start to the weekend.
To be fair to our Susan it was probably worse for her. Not only did she have a grumpy little brother to look after who spoiled her Saturday shopping spree with his miserable face but she also had to spend the afternoon in the rather gloomy and fun free house of our strict Gran – it couldn’t have been much fun for a teenager.
Fortunately, my recent move to secondary school signalled an increase in both my age and maturity and it was mercifully decided that I was no longer required to accompany Susan around the shops on a Saturday morning. Hurrah! It was no doubt an incredible relief for both of us. Instead I was given £2 pocket money and the freedom to choose my own entertainment. What a wonderful liberation it was. This was the autumn of 1985. I had just become a Commodore 64 owner and was hungry for games. My newfound financial and physical freedom couldn’t have come at a better time.
From then onwards Saturdays were transformed from a nightmare into an absolute dream. I was master of my destiny. Bolton was my oyster and £2 was burning a hole in my pocket. No longer would I suffer the slings and arrows of Chelsea Girl and Clockhouse. Now I could go where I wanted and do what I wanted with whom I wanted. It felt wonderful.
