WE lived in Barnsley. But every weekend we’d be transported twice nightly to Gotham city, avidly following the antics of legendary crimefighters, Batman and Robin.
The Marsh Street gang formed a tight little circle, fists clenched at the ready. We were a ragtag bunch, grubby hands and faces, complementing filthy, tattered and torn T-shirts, jeans and baseball boots, a consequence of another action-packed afternoon, laking about and rope-swinging on the cut.
“Ger on wi’ it, then,” Johnny Marjai said, all but drowned out by the town hall clock, striking six. “It’s on at half past, remember. Then part two at seven. We’ve not got all neet, thannuz…”
Shock of blonde hair, blowing in the breeze, Hally swung into action, moving swiftly round the group, tapping each extended hand in turn. Unlike leftover days in the long, hot summer holidays,
dipping rhymes were plentiful, gleefully passed down the generations by friends and relatives. Dip, dip, dip, my blue ship was commonplace, as was one potato, two potato. Occasionally, we’d be treated to a rendition of reeena, meena, macker, racker, rare, ro, domino, juilacker, alapacker, rom, tom, tush! Except there was only Wootty that knew it and he was in the Far East all week; Cleethorpes, actually, Fitties Camp, right by the dunes. Today’s ditty went: “Old missus Helephone, tumbled down the telephone, how many miles did she fall? Close your eyes and think, one to ten…”
It was soon settled. Hatty was on, a fast-moving game of tigs, circumnavigating lampposts, dustbins and cars, dominating the congested terraced street. By the time the town hall chimed again – declaring a pre-arranged Batman alarm time of 6.15 – the on-title had changed hands several times over, moving from Hatty to Hally then Evo and Tivvy, before transferring back to Hatty again.
Home in a flash, we settled into our favourite spot, eyes glued to DER or Redifussion rented sets, resplendent with glorious 625-lines black and white, a devastating substitute for the splurge of rainbow-like superhero colours portrayed in used DC Comics, 3d each off the market. The episode commenced in Wayne Manor; Bruce Wayne, calmness personified, and his loyal ward, Dick Grayson, speaking on the Batphone with a concerned Commissioner Gordon; please, we need you, Batman! Cut to: a rotating bookcase; the Batpole; Batman and Robin, entering the Batcave, then speeding off in the Batmobile accompanied by an endless theme tune barrage of:
“Batman, Batman…Batman, Batman, Batman!”
Skids, screeches and screams. A deserted building and a giant puff of smoke. Holy mackerel, it’s a trap! Enter the Joker. Catwoman. Riddler and Penguin. Hoodlums in berets and hooped tops. Fight-time! Kapow! Sock! Crunch! Thwack! Pow! Hurled through a sugar-glass window, the Caped Crusader grabs the Boy Wonder’s hand in the nick of time, dangling in mid-air, several stories high. Freeze frame. Will Robin save the day? Will Batman survive? Until next time. Same time. Same channel.
Back outside, we legged it to the market, tigs off the floor this time, leaping on and off wooden-slatted stalls, changing direction like heat seeking missiles to avoid being tigged. Next thing, boing! 6.45pm and we were off again, disappearing to all points of the compass like some prodigious, exploding firework. Phew! Batman fell, but miraculously landed atop a passing hay truck. The Dynamic Duo retreated to the Batcave, licking their wounds. Not for long, though. Cut to: Batman delving into his utility belt, using grappling hooks to abseil the outside of the building with Robin. A burst of cackled laughter. Smeared clown makeup. Green hair and red lips, curved into a menacing Glasgow smile. A pair of oversized scissors. Snip!
“Aaaargh!”
The Dynamic Duo took a tumble. Freeze frame. Is this the end? Or will fate find a way? Until next time. Same time. Same channel.
With our heroes staring into the abyss, we hit the streets again, a game of hospital tigs now, a punishing version in which whoever was on had to run and chase with a hand clasped across the tig spot, be it head, shoulder, hip or ankle.
“How does Batman know when it’s food time?” Hally randomly quipped. “His mother shouts, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner…Batman!”
