THE JOCKS - MY LIFELONG FRIENDS

Another small but important adjunct to my autobiography.

When I was a very young adult I used to refer to my best friends/male mates as Neanderthals because they were a bunch of Glaswegian street teenagers gone AWOL to find their fortunes in the soft balmy climes of the English south.

They were rough, tough and football crazy. There was one thing that they loved more than anything. They loved to fight. They sought reasons to fight all the time and, when they were unchallenged by the local lads of our seaside resort, they would fight between themselves which I would always try to stop by getting between them if I could. They would rather have died than hit me.

Everyone told me they were dangerous but that is not how I saw them at all. I saw survivors who had been expected to remain in their assigned dull cold rut but had sought a way to escape together as a team. They never referred to themselves as a gang. They were a group of very strong individuals, bonded by a shared hard and poor childhood.

They were very different from the local people in Clacton on Sea, Essex. They grew their hair long and only wore denim almost as a uniform. They stood out for their complete commitment to each other at all times.

We became friends when I took them home from sleeping on the beach.

It was October, stormy and windy. I couldn’t pass by and leave them, filthy, cold and hungry. I saw them like a pack of stray dogs in need of a helping hand and I was a privileged but naïve London school-leaver of 17 years.

I was living with my younger brother in my father’s newly built holiday home and we were both working, learning how to be independent from our family. We had a lovely warm, three bedroomed chalet bungalow in the nicer part of Jaywick Sands, which quietly boasted the best uncrowded sandy beach in Essex. There was no actual nightlife in Jaywick, so my brother and I would get a bus into Clacton-on-Sea to go dancing at the local discotheque. Then late in the night we would enjoy a long walk home along the dark seafront.

One particularly windswept night a voice hailed us from below the promenade, asking for a light for his cigarette. My brother bent down to shelter his lighter from the wind and I looked beyond him to see that there were at least six young men huddled in a corner of the sea wall and breaker.

I told them that they could not possibly stay there because the incoming wild tide would soon reach the sea wall and soak them. I also told them about the regular police patrols along the promenade all through the night. During the conversation I observed that they had no baggage of any kind. They were literally there in just the clothes that they were wearing and they had no coats. Only thin denim jackets, jeans and boots.

When they stood up and asked me where I thought would be a safe place to sleep, I did not hesitate for a second. Before my brother could even think to object, I said, “Oh well, why don’t you come home with us? We have plenty of room, food and firewood. You are welcome to share!”

That offer of sharing shook the Glaswegian newcomers to their roots.

They could not believe it when I helped them take it in turns to bath, shave and eat egg and chips. I worked all night long, cooking and washing their clothes. I kept the fire stoked for drying the clothes on a frame in the lounge. They sat around like Roman Senators at the baths, dressed in towels, grinning and smoking all my cigarettes.

My brother and I could barely understand a word they were saying. Their accents were unfamiliar and very different words or phrases were frequently used. We all spent that night in fits of laughter, trying to understand each other! It was like a pantomime at times!

When they got rough, I haughtily called them Neanderthals and they said I had swallowed a dictionary! They found me hilarious and I did not mind being teased over my good-school manners and evident lack of fear or street wisdom.

My brother and I helped them to rent another holiday home which our extended London family owned. They could use it for the winter provided that I took responsibility for keeping it in good repair, which I did, of course.

Clacton Pier late 1960s

Then my brother helped them to find jobs alongside him, working on the Pier doing out of season repair work. They formed a madly savage football team which hit the local Sunday Football League like a runaway train. They called themselves the Harlequins and added a couple of skilled players, two Northern Irish brothers helped to complete their team. They were unbeatable, scoring spectacular goals and taking amazing risks with their crashing tackles.

Tony, the one that later became my husband, was known as Hatchet because he would cripple or knock out any strong or cheeky opponents, but the referees never actually saw him inflict damage. Tony was careful to do his ‘thing’ when the ref was looking elsewhere! He was an unbeatable defender who could score long arching goals from a tremendous distance. Jai was the centre forward who was nippy and quick, weaving and dodging until he would literally run the ball into the net. His high scoring was always the highlight of every match. The Harlequins were savage and soon rose to the top of the Sunday Football League where they stayed dominant for many years until they grew out of football and directed their considerable energy into working, mostly in construction.

My friends were Neanderthal in their team spirit and indominable in survival skills.
It was a privilege to be their friend for 5 decades until, one by one, they wore themselves out and died. Only one remains alive now. 😪

I always told them that I would live longest because I did not drink alcohol and I did not drive myself to physical extremes like they did….. I would have preferred to have been wrong about that, but hey, hard livers die young and they certainly knew how to push boundaries. Limitations simply did not exist for my friends, the Jocks.

My Neanderthals may have disappeared, just like their ancient namesakes but, I have to say, my life would have been a colourless and dull thing without them and I miss their teasing and cajoling, their cuddles and kisses, and above all, I miss their protection and unfailing love.

Hang on, guys! I am gonna finish up here and be right with ya…. wait for me!

I was thinking of my 54% American subscribers as I approached the end of this article and realising that most of them would not know what Clacton on Sea in Essex, UK was like. I went searching for something to show them, to give them some idea of the background of our youth.

I was amused to find out that in 2019 the town where I had spent most of my life has been declared the worst place to live in UK! Admittedly, I haven’t lived there since 2003 and it was sadly deteriorating even then. Nevertheless, here is a short video which explains why Clacton and its immediate area scores so low among places you might want to visit if you ever come to visit my country! You will see some of the places I mention in my autobiography and hear how it is now considered quite a depressing and dangerous town!

Oh dear! 😨