The Summer of ’91🎸(Not ’69)
Murph reflects on a youthful memory that still makes him smile
I was thinking recently about something that happened to me just after I started life as an apprentice. These days my own son, Tom, is an apprentice at puretransfer.com, so it all feels that bit more relevant again. It wasn’t the summer of ’69, despite what was playing on the radio, it was the summer of 1991. I was 17 and part way through my apprenticeship at Hurst & Carr, learning to be a high-skilled pipefitter welder (amongst other things), which meant I was feeling very grown up, thank you very much. Working in a very famous soap factory (Google it) in Port Sunlight, meant a daily commute from Bootle, through Liverpool, and onto the Wirral Line.
I’ll be honest with you. At 17, I was making a bit of an effort because, you know, there might be girls on the train checking me out. Looking back, I now see there weren’t any female eyes watching me, but at 17ish you don’t always know these things. So, in order to impress these imaginary ladies, instead of wearing my usual tracksuit bottoms, I opted for jeans. To this day, I’ll still never understand why anyone would willingly work a physical job in jeans! We wore boiler suits over our clothes, and jeans underneath were about the most uncomfortable, inflexible option imaginable!
Anyway, my favourite jeans for impressing the ladies had a hole in their pocket, which meant I kept losing coins. So, in my teenage wisdom, I cut an even bigger hole in the pocket, to train myself not to put money in there. Logical… right?
On this particular day it was roasting hot (yes, that happens, even in the North of England) so, in the changing room, we stripped out of our clothes instead of wearing them under our boiler suits. I then headed off to work, leaving my bundle, including my holy jeans on a changing bench.
Now, the lads I worked with always looked out for me. They weren’t massive practical jokers, not when it comes to clothes, at least. But, at the end of the shift, when I went to get changed, grabbing the only pair of jeans left, I quickly saw a problem.
The jeans weren’t mine!
After a few moments of confusion, it clicked: the lad who’d left early had taken my jeans by mistake… and left his for me.
The only issue? He was significantly shorter than me. And built completely differently. It was wishful thinking that this would end well. I couldn’t even get them past my knees!
The thing was, I had no choice, not if I wanted to go home that night: you weren’t allowed on the train in dirty overalls. So, I wrestled myself into the tiny jeans. When I finally squeezed them on, looking like Rod Stewart in concert, I was barely able to move. Zero dignity.
On the way home, for the first time in my life, I hoped there’d be no girls on the train, silently cursing my buddy with every expletive I knew. Did anyone notice? It’s difficult to tell.
Looking back I feel a lot better about that journey, than I did at the time. Why?
The next morning my buddy stormed over to me, not to apologise, but to call me a ‘knobhead’… because of the holes in my pockets!
Apparently, on no fewer than three occasions, he’d put his change into his pocket and it had dropped through the hole, down his leg, and onto the floor… leaving him scrambling to collect coins in front of everyone!
It would seem that the gods had decided neither of us would have much dignity that day! I couldn’t help grinning that my friend’s journey wasn’t any better than mine.
Murph