My next door neighbour John Thomson and I would play headers and kicks in the back garden. We were fortunate that we had ready-made goals. Four cast iron upright posts painted corporation green held up the clothes ropes from which our parents would hang out the washing on those rare days when the weather could be trusted. A slight fly in the ointment as far as our endeavours to emulate our footballing heroes was concerned was that directly behind one set of the goal posts was John’s bedroom window, which meant that one had to be rather delicate when scoring in that direction. Needless to say, there was at least one occasion when a ball struck and smashed a window pane. Not breaking windows was hardly a priority in the midst of an exciting match.

We could play for hours, multiple games, the previous game forgotten as a new one began. John and I were nothing if not imaginative when it came to entertaining ourselves. Show jumping, involving riders in jodphurs and helmets and smart red jackets leaping over fences and being fined four points if they failed to clear the obstacles had become BBC1 prime time viewing in the late 1970s and early 80s. At the height of its popularity, millions of people of all ages would be glued to their tellies. Showjumpers David Broome and Nick Skelton were household names and Harvey Smith was a particular favourite. The bad boy of the posh sport would stick two-fingers up to the camera in a V-sign as an act of defiance. This rude gesture was loved by the viewers, particularly those of us who had never seen a pair of jodphurs in the flesh and wouldn’t until the New Romantic musical movement spearheaded by bands like Spandau Ballet and Duran Duran came alone.

At some point and for a reason that has been lost to time, John and I were inspired by the showjumping when we came into possession of a multitide of oversized cardboard boxes which had been discarded after some DIY or the arrival of appliances. We immediately unfolded and positioned the cardboard around the back garden in order to replicate the showjumping experience. Having set them up we trotted around the garden, our hands holding imaginary reins, our knees lifting to mimick a particularly grand and obedient horse. We leapt over these cardboard obstacles mimicking the roar of the crowd. Whoever was on the sideline would impersonate the commentator and in a posh voice, complete with echo, called out ‘Four faults’ if the cardboard fell. We enjoyed it so much we would have happily missed The A-Team, The Golden Shot and Dallas, well maybe not Dallas.

John Thomson, who sadly passed away from a heart attack too soon in life, will remain forever in my heart not least for his efforts in the 1972 Munich Olympics. Not that he was there, of course, but we did have our own Olympics in Temple where we grew up. That summer’s 1972 Temple Olympics involved all of the kids who recreated the sporting tournament as best we could with boxing matches, the high jump, long jump, the javelin, shot put and athletics, including the 100, 200, 400 and 1500 metres. The 100 metres was the length of Blackwood Street, 400 metres was once around the block and a marathon required us to run around a designated route that took in the whole neighbourhood. It took about a half hour to complete. I could have won it and was way ahead but faked exhaustion in order to come third and remain popular. An example of self-sabotage that continued well into adulthood.

A spiked iron railing doubled as a javelin and a half-brick was the shot put. I can’t remember what the discus was. My wife has suggested a bin lid which is possible, but I think it’s more likely it was a slate roof tile or something like that. The shot-put event I do remember, however, and I will never forget it as long as I live. It was John Thomson’s turn to throw the shot put and the rest of us gathered at a safe distance at ‘the foot of the grass’. John threw the half brick which sailed into the air, further than anyone had managed before or even imagined possible. It was heading straight for one of the other lads who turned on his heel and legged it to avoid being hit by the brick. Instead, he ran directly into its trajectory. He let out a pained yelp as it struck him on the head. The boy fell to the ground and we ran to his aid seeing that blood was leaking from a head wound, just as John, in time-honoured tradition shouted, “It’s a new world record”.