Criminal Masterminds Aged 7
How we waged war on laundry, phone boxes, and Mr Vincent's car in 1960s Swansea
Another memory from my early 1960s childhood in the Port Tennant area of Swansea. We weren't bad kids, just curious, bored, and occasionally criminal. Most of what we got up to would now land you in therapy or a public apology. Back then, it was just what kids did.
Laundry Warfare and Summer Pyromania
When feeling particularly wicked, we'd throw mud at some poor woman's freshly hung washing. Her lines stretched along Ysgol Street, and I'm fairly sure she dreaded Monday mornings once word got out we were on the rampage.
Our seasonal specialty involved setting fire to the grassy bank sloping down to the railway lines. In a masterstroke of misdirection, we'd phone the fire brigade ourselves afterwards, standing there wide-eyed like tiny arsonists pretending to be concerned citizens. It never occurred to us that grown-ups weren't as daft as we hoped.
Petty Crime, Big Consequences
I once acted as lookout while older lads "robbed" the public phone box on Ysgol Street—conveniently located right next to a police box. The copper inside stepped out and gave me a good clout round the ear. No arrest, just a reminder that someone was always watching. This probably led to another hiding from my father.
Peter and I once smashed the rear lights on a man's parked lorry. I have no idea why. When Mr Vincent saw Peter doing the deed but not me, I thought I'd gotten away with it—until Peter, in true Judas fashion, grassed me up. I can't remember if I hit him for it, but I'd like to think I did.
All this proves corporal punishment doesn't work. It didn't stop us; it just made us sneakier.
Clive, the Car, and the Unforgivable Betrayal
Our darkest moment came when we talked Clive Jones into hammering a six-inch nail into Mr Vincent's brand-new Hillman Minx. Clive was about fourteen, with Down's syndrome, the word we used then was "Mongol," not understanding its weight—and he played with our gang of seven-year-olds like any other mate.
Which makes what we did so much worse.
We used him. We knew he didn't understand consequences like we did. By some miracle, the nail went clean through the rubber seal between the boot and bodywork without causing real damage. The act stuck with me, not for the potential destruction, but for the betrayal.
Despite this, Clive remained one of us. His dog Ben, roughly the size of a small donkey,would let smaller kids ride him like a furry pony. They were a proper double act, gentle and always part of the gang.
His mother once caught us playing "doctors and nurses" behind her garden hedge. She was lucky she didn't see what we were getting up to in one of the shelters, she'd never have recovered from the shock.
Crimes of Credit and Breakfast Cereal Theft
We bought Mars bars "on tick" from Doris Murphy's corner shop, hoping the odd chocolate bar might slip under the radar when Mam settled the bill at week's end. It never did, and consequences were swift.
My most inventive theft involved a box of Cornflakes, not for the cereal, but for the toy glider printed on the back. I was caught in the front garden, carefully cutting it out before Mam could intervene. Priorities, even then.
We weren't criminal masterminds. Just seven-year-olds learning the hard way that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, usually a clout round the ear.