AT 13, my ambition was to get a paper-round so that I had extra pocket money on a regular basis. I put my name down on the waiting list at Westwood’s Newsagents, opposite the Longcar Inn, and it was such a relief when a job came up.
But even before I’d started my first shift I’d already decided how I was going to spend my first week’s wage.
Those September mornings were wet and windy but it didn’t bother me because I was obsessed with using the money I earned to buy an A4 coloured poster of Everton FC. I wasn’t even an Everton fan but I did hero-worship their winger, Alan Ball, with his red hair and fiery passion.
Anyway, they didn’t do posters of Third Division teams like Barnsley. To purchase the poster you had to collect five tokens from the sides of Typhoo tea boxes and send them off with 15 shillings (75p).
I’d even craftily pestered my parents to change tea suppliers from Rington’s to Typhoo, without ‘letting on’ about my ulterior motive. “All my mates’ parents drink Typhoo. It’s gorgeous, and tea’s good for you.
The more you drink, the better,” I told them. The big problem was, my family didn’t drink tea fast Enough. One day I heard my mam chatting to Mrs Ashworth in the back yard.
“By gum, our Ronnie’s turning into a smashing young man. I’m really proud of him. He can’t do enough for us, you know - always making a pot o’ tea. It tastes like cat wee but at least he’s not selfish like a lot of young ‘uns of today.” They both laughed. “Bless,” said Mrs Ashworth.
My sister whispered in my ear, “I know why you’re always making tea. You want the tokens off the Typhoo box so you can send for a football team picture. Robert told me.”
Mam’s still chatting outside. “Oh aye. He’s no trouble at all our Ronnie, you know.” Inside the house I was so mad with my sister I pushed her into the sideboard and two brass plates came crashing to the floor like cymbals from a drum kit.
“What the...? shouted my mam, peering into the house. “If I come in there, Ronnie Steele, and find my brass plates are damaged, I’ll bloody rattle you.”
On Saturday morning at the end of my first week, I got paid my 15 shillings and stuffed the ten-bob note and two half crowns into the breast pocket of my parka.
The morning was dry but the wind was gale force. My round started on Racecommon Road and finished on Raley Street, and when my last paper went through the last letter box, I felt in my pocket for the money. The two half crowns were there but the ten-bob note had gone. I began to curse. Where the flam- ing heck is it? I tried all the other pockets but I knew I was wasting my time.
So, I retraced my steps, scouring every bit of pavement, road and garden, but the wind could have blown it anywhere. I even saw a bald man running like mad after his flat- cap as it rolled down the road like a pram wheel. I felt sluffed as I entered the last gar- den where I’d posted my first Daily Mirror, and there it was, my beauti- ful ten-bob note. It was flapping like the wings of a butterfly. I picked it up and kissed it. “Oh, you little beauty!” I shouted, just as a skinny young fella ap- peared from Cranbrook Street. He looked at me ‘gone-out’ as though I’d escaped from a lunatic asylum. “What thar looking at?” I said. “I don’t know but it’s looking back.”
To think, I’d worked seven mornings on the trot in all weathers, just so I could buy a photo of Everton FC with my hero on it. As soon as I got home I got the tok- ens I’d collected and sent them off to Typhoo Tea with a postal order and a covering letter marked “VERY VERY URGENT!!!”
A lifetime later, the postman delivered a large envelope marked “DO NOT BEND”, but by this time I’d gone off Alan Ball and was saving tokens for a poster of Manchester City and Colin Bell. “Your poster’s here, love!” shouted my mam. “Yeah, I know. I’ll open it later. Have I to make another pot of tea,
Mam?” “Aye, but don’t make it too strong this time.”
