It’s late summer of 1972, and the Friday morning sun feels warm on our backs as we stand at the top of the M1 slip road at Dodworth, trying to hitch a lift.
My mate Carl and I are heading for a weekend ‘economy stay’ in London and we’re each carrying a number of things, including a rucksack and a rolled-up sleeping bag.
We also possess a five pound note each, to cover the cost of everything: transport, accommodation, food, entertainment, shopping, etc.
We’re well aware that a break in the capital would normally cost around fifty to sixty pounds but we’re not loaded and we both love a challenge.
“I hope you’ve brought a whistle?” says Carl.
“A whistle? What do we need a whistle for?”
“Well,” he replies, with a grin. “Whistle need some sandwiches, a drink, pocket money and...”
I burst out laughing, as our first lift pulls up just ahead of us.
By mid-afternoon we’re dropped off on Oxford Street, in the capital, and make our way to the fashion centre of the world: Carnaby Street.
We stop outside a boutique with huge ‘sale’ signs in the window, and wander inside. There’s a pungent smell of burning incense. The clothes are dead cheap – much cheaper than in Barnsley. I see a fabulous pair of hipsters and a gorgeous light brown jumper, both at three quid each. What a pity. I daren’t spend more than, say, four quid out of my five, or I’ll have nothing for food.
“Wow," I say aloud. “These prices are far out, daddio.”
“Far out, daddio?” says Carl, mockingly. “How long has tha been a hippy?”
“These prices are cool, man,” I reply, playing up to the stereotype.
I say to the manager: “I’l gi’ thi four quid for... I mean, I’ll give you four pounds for these kecks and this jumper.”
Five minutes later I emerge from the shop with a pair of hipsters, a jumper and a completely empty wallet. Carl’s also wiped out financially but he’s now the proud owner of two flowery shirts.
“What are we gonna to do for food, now, Carl?”
“In the words of Mr Micawber, ‘summat’ll turn up’.”
As we walk on a pavement beside a high wall, Carl says: “Three years ago, me and Phil Parker scaled this wall and slept in the grounds of Buckingham Palace. We didn’t know it was the Queen’s residence until next morning.”
“Gi’ o’er,” I reply, sceptically. But Carl’s definitely not joking. “You can get that idea straight out of your head, mate. I’m here in London for adventure – I don’t wanna upset royalty and find myself locked in the tower with my head on a bloody wooden block.”
It’s now Friday teatime and although we’re slightly replete from our packed lunch (my water bottle leaked and spoiled some sandwiches), we’re really just two cocky, skint, northern vagrants.
That night we take shelter in an underground car park down Pall Mall. The concrete floor is uncomfortable and the mid-morning temperature makes it feel like winter, but at least we’re dry and manage, maybe, four hours sleep.
On the Saturday, we stroll around the city centre and finish up near Madame Tussaud’s. Carl finds five pence in the gutter, and as we share a Sally Lunn, a big guy suddenly pushes us both up against the wall. He’s a plain-clothes detective searching likely-looking users, for nefarious substances.
We’re both thoroughly searched and then sent on our way.
That night we sleep under an M1 bridge just outside London, and next morning we manage to cadge lifts right up to junction 36 at Birdwell. We then have to walk four miles in the heat until we rest on a bench at the top of Hound Hill.
The next thing I know, I wake up, and an hour and a half has passed. I reach over and shake Carl from his dreams, and by now we’re both feeling slightly refreshed.
A weekend in London, plus a jumper and trousers - not bad for five nicker. But I’m so delighted to be back to my home comforts in Barnsley.
As we split to go our separate paths home, Carl utters his usual refrain: “That’s another tale you’ll be able to write about one day.”
And I laugh, yet again, because I’m certain there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell of that ever happening...
