By Keith Skipper
Thoughts of a Norfolk youth within the Fifties by way of one in every of Norfolk's best-known humorists and broadcasters. 36 separate items, 3 for every month of the 12 months. Affectionate and humorous, the writing deals a sharp-eyed and unsentimental view of post-war existence in Norfolk particularly, and the rustic commonly, in Nineteen Fifties England.As Keith Skipper says: "Distance might lend attraction, yet my state formative years has encouraged even more than rampant nostalgia. I enjoy each likelihood to extol the virtues of a golden age when...life was once quieter, slower, simpler...."
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Additional resources for Confessions of a Country Boy
What a doddle! What a debut! What outrageous fun! Mrs Beeton, eat your heart out! I didn’t know much about the laws of gravity, but I knew that the pancake ought to have re-entered part of the stratosphere round the kitchen table within a few seconds. The girls gaped upwards as if waiting for a divine explanation. I stood with my empty pan, perplexed, alone, awkward, confused and suddenly aware how rousing kitchen capers can fall so flat. Two discoveries restored dramatic life to this Shrove Tuesday tableau.
By the time I caught my train to Fransham and disembarked for what I hoped would be a triumphant pedal towards those famous twin towers of Wembley, the yellow and green tide had been turned back at last. Norfolk had been taken over by football fever since early January when the Canaries defied all odds and toppled mighty Manchester United 3-0 at snowbound Carrow Road in the third round. Victory over the Busby Babes was the beginning of the big time. As more sensational results followed, ticket queues snaked for miles and stories of hardship and sacrifice multiplied when hire-purchase agreements came under serious strain.
Birthday money boosted the kitty. Important questions about travelling arrangements were raised. Was it too far to bike? Would there be a bus from the village? What about a special train stopping at Fransham? Why did Ernie think we ought to go there via a place called Soho? Tubby asked about tickets, but we voted to leave that in abeyance until the Canaries had made it. Details would be in the paper, and surely the genuine supporters would get priority. Then, on that Wednesday afternoon in March, 1959, a slightly-built Irishman scored a goal destined to break Norfolk hearts and draw sighs of regret from all who wanted this sporting fairytale to have a happy ending.