And that’s why in those post-war years Christmas to us youngsters became so much more special. No TV and computer games then, you were lucky to get a game to share. But there was always the Christmas treat a generation came to expect – an orange and a packet of nuts in the bottom of your stocking.

At school they did their best to make it something special. Father Christmas came with (if you were lucky) sweets to hand out and even though everyone knew it was really the headmaster dressed up they pretended it wasn’t him really.

There were carol concerts at school on which weeks were devoted to rehearsal with scores of young voices bellowing out those favourite songs, only to finish school for the day and bawl them out yet again on neighbourhood doorsteps.

Some were selected for stage stardom and plucked out of class to take part in the nativity play which necessitated wearing a tea towel on the head and admiring someone’s favourite doll wrapped in a cut-up sheet.

Christmas was also a time of roast chestnuts, often bought from street sellers for those  rich enough to be able to afford a couple of pence for a bag and  of course a time of rising excitement as Christmas Eve approached and everyone went round wishing each other – even total strangers – “all the best.”

Christmas Eve for kids meant a flurry of anticipation and speculation over just when HE would arrive down the chimney (no thought seemed to be given to the fact that he would have to negotiate a blazing coal fire or if he was late one of those all night burners which relied on smashed up coal brickettes to keep them going until morning.)

In true Christmas spirit you left him a drink and mince pie and off you went to bed, but not to sleep. How many parents must have reflected on that before tip-toeing into bedrooms armed with presents they could not really afford.

Sleep, when it finally came, did not last long and those who were wide awake by the early hours would be found scouting round looking to see if “HE “had been. If he had few could not resist taking a look, un-wrapping the paper and usually waking the rest of the house in the process.

Then, finally, dawn broke, the family made its way downstairs and mum began cooking the Christmas dinner.

Contrary to what some would have us believe turkeys were not plentiful in those years immediately after the war, particularly for those who did not have access to the spivs who ran the black market.

Even chickens were hard to come by for us “townies” and it was the lucky household which managed to acquire one for Christmas dinner.

Youngsters would look on eagerly as the bird was carefully carved, desperately looking for the wish bone which would be pulled while secret wishes were made.

Most people, though, seemed to plump for roast beef – if they could get it.

As for Christmas pudding the lucky (and more well off) were able to afford fruit to put in theirs. Others resorted to what they could find and some are said to have tried carrot as a substitute. Mum would throw in a couple of three-penny pieces in traditional fashion. Unhygienic probably and it didn’t do much for young teeth either when you bit into them.

Christmas trees were hardly seen unless you lived in the country and rooms would be decorated with home-made paper chains. These were often glued by mixing flour and water into paste.

It was simple, it was all a bit Spartan, but it was terrific fun.

The local record department was packed as shoppers battled to buy the latest hits.

I was there, too, with a friend of mine who was asking if he could listen to a record fast climbing the hit parade – a rockin’ little number by a young lad known as “The Kilted Choirboy.” His real name was Jackie Dennis and his hit song was called The Purple People Eater, which had been a hit in the States for a disc jockey known as Sheb Wooley.

The girl behind the counter looked the record out (it was one of the old and fondly remembered “seventy-eights”), gave it to him and pointed us towards a booth at the side of the shop.

We went in, put it on the turntable and listened, not just once but several times.

That was the way of it in those days. And they trusted you to take it back once you’d finished even if you didn’t want to buy it. He did, though, and so did I and it sticks in the memory still for it was the first record I ever bought.

How times have changed.

At that time there was no popular music radio station (Radio One did not come until the “pirate” radio stations were driven off-air in the mid-Sixties)  and to hear the music you liked meant either tuning into Radio Luxembourg every evening, the trouble being that it faded all the time, or if you were lucky hearing something worthwhile, on Family Favourites or Housewives’ Choice.

For many people in the 1950s, particularly in the earlier part of the decade, having something to play records on was a sought after item.

At one time I had a treasured wind-up player, a hefty machine with a pick-up that was extremely heavy and you needed a supply of steel needles to make it work.

But things started to move fast as the fifties progressed. Enter the Dansette.

This was probably the most popular record player of all, introduced in 1950-51 at a cost of 33 guineas (think £800 today!). It was fairly portable, although rather heavy and had four speeds – 16rpm, 33, 45 and 78.

Not only that. Joy of joy, you could actually stack your records on a spindle which dropped the next one once the disc which had been playing ended.

Of course, if you didn’t have the money to buy a record player and providing you lived in East Yorkshire you could always give Teledisc a call. This was the unique Hull Corporation Telephones service on which a hit of the week was played which led to many a household phone being tied up for ages, not to mention groups of teenagers gathered round phone boxes to listen in.

All very old fashioned by today’s standards, but those were days still fondly remembered by many.

What fun they were.

- FiftiesFan

*Remember buying your first record? Or what it was?  We welcome your memories.

No TV in those days, computers were unheard of and the X-box was probably something the Martians used in the adventure comics you bought.

There was also the fact that you entertained yourselves, usually with other kids from the neighbourhood with games on the street.

For those were the times when the sight of a car down your road was a rarity, when most folk went by bus or by bike and when health and safety rules were unheard of. The street was probably your only playground.

And what good times youngsters had.

Young lads swaggered around toting cap guns shooting ’em up in wild games of cowboys and Indians, everyone a Roy Rogers or Hopalong Cassidy. The marvels of big screen adventure enjoyed at the pictures on a Saturday morning came imaginatively down your way. Wonder why no one ever wanted to be an Indian.

The “marbles season” arrived just after Easter with kids everywhere carrying round bags of treasured little balls of intense colour, some glass, some ceramic. Those whose dads worked in factories would come out with bags full of ball bearings – what a prize they were.

Stilts caused endless amusement for a few weeks a year at least. How we enjoyed it staggering down the street two foot higher than usual. Every tried dancing on them? Bet you came a cropper.

Girls liked skipping games, chanting various rhymes as they dodged the turning rope which was often several feet long, allowing several of them to skip at once.

Others went in for endless games of hopscotch. There was hardly a street anywhere which was not adorned with those numbered squares they jumped in and out of.

Roller skates preceded skate boards and kids searched the neighbourhood for the streets with the smoothest surface.

Houses across the street would be connected by lengths of string attached to empty tin cans which formed a primitive form of telephone.

And on the street hide and seek became known by other names, not least of them being block.

Whoever was “It” (where did that name come from?) hid their face, counted to a certain number, and bawled “coming ready or not” while the rest secreted themselves away, racing from their hiding place to touch the place where “It” did the counting and live to see another game without taking “It’s” role.

Lads collected snails, fished for sticklebacks in local parks, took home jars of frog spawn and fought with home-made swords baddies supposedly from Nottingham in games where to be Robin Hood made you top dog for an hour an hour or two least.

At the local Cubs pack you went on “wide games” which entailed leaving a trail for you to be tracked. With the pack usually meeting in the evening these games often went on for hours across fields and through woods. No-one bothered, your safety just wasn’t a problem.

How times have changed.

These and many other games are now part of history.

Isn’t that rather sad?

So you couldn’t afford to buy a car – few could in the 1950s – but you had your eye on something to get you around other than your bike.

Like thousands of others you plumped for a moped, but secretly hoped for a motor bike. Remember those Tiger Cubs, “Beeza” 350s, Vincent Black Shadows, Triumph Dominators and the like?

Of course with a moped it still needed some pedal power to get the thing running, but once it did you were off – and sailing along at a top speed of around 30mph to boot.

By the mid-Fifties the moped and later the scooter was a part of the scene in every street in the land

Britain was late in catching on to scooters, which were Continental in origin, but a look back to the 1959 Cycle And Motor Cycle Show, at Earl’s Court, reveals the amazing choice on offer.
Most scooters and mopeds were not of British manufacturer, although BSA was the leader with its baby Dandy 70 and the 200cc “Beeza”.

Particularly striking that year was the increasing use of plastics.
And it was said: “From complete sidecars to tank motifs, the medium is being used wherever it can to help save cost or improve durability.”
Innovations that year included the appearance of the first tubeless tyres and a punctureless tyre for scooters and mini-cars.
An example of motorcycle value was said to be the newly styled James Comet which cost less than £90, including tax.
“For the sporting enthusiast who cannot afford road racing but still enjoys a “battle” the £162 8s 10d Francis Barnett Falcon Scrambler is a lightweight which provides plenty of fun at low cost and little risk.”

Those who wanted more than a motor on a bike – who still recalls those rear wheeled powered machines known as “quicklies?”  soon turned to cars and to what was seen as a real threat to the scooters which were so popular on the Continent and later over here.

Enter in 1959 – the Bond Minicar Mark E.
One report said:  “The Mark E has sports car lines, two doors, big car width for three people, bumpers and reverse gear. It does over 50mph and 85mpg and costs £339 including tax.”

What a bargain!

Peep through the window, though, and this is a treasure trove, a step back in time to childhood.

This particular establishment is at Whitby and it sells, among other things, a wide selection of the sort of sweets that kids once invested their meagre amounts of pocket money on each and every week. Not so much a sweet shop, then. More a magical memory tour.

It was not until 1953 that the first un-rationed “goodies” first appeared and what a treat that was.

Clutching our sixpences we would head off to the local shop to gaze in awe at what soon became a huge variety of sweets. Deciding which ones to buy was a major decision.

Perhaps readers will recall just a few of those which tempted us half a century or so ago.

A big favourite (probably because there was a lot of it for the money) was McGowan’s toffee. It cam plain or chocolate covered and the chances were that you would never finish it because it always became too sticky and picked up fluff when you tried to re-wrap it to carry in your pocket.

Maybe you enjoyed Nipits, those tiny and very strong aniseed and liquorice pellets which came in little tins or liquorice root which you sucked until it became a straggly and tangled and very soggy mess.

Liquorice featured strongly in those days – remember the bootlaces you could buy?  Or the pipes made of it which usually formed part of boxed “smokers’ outfits?”

Then, of course, we sampled Pontefract cakes (eat too many and you really did suffer!) and, of course, liquorice allsorts.

Talking of smoking, we all enjoyed those Basset’s sweet cigarettes, which usually came five to a pack, each one tipped with a red die so you could pretend to having a puff as you wandered home.

Swizzles (lollies) came in pink and yellow and a firm favourite with just about all were those delicious little sweets they called fruit salad.

Who still remembers buying two ounces of kali, watching as their fingers and tongues went yellow?

We ate our way through quarters of chocolate lines, pear drops, acid drops, nougat and, of course, the great favourite with all ages – Spangles.

More sedate were dolly mixtures, but for real enjoyment you would plump for a gobstopper. Heaven help you if you swallowed it, but how many actually ever finished one?

Then, of course, we had chewing gum – XL or Wrigley’s being he main brands. Packets of Juicy Fruit and spearmint in tablet form were widely available in machine outside newsagents’ shops.

There was also the terrible bubble gum which came in large pink chunks. To start with it was disgustingly sweet and kids would march around with jaws pumping to get it into the state where bubbles could be blown – the bigger the better. You had to watch it though for if someone hit you in the face and burst it you would spend half an hour removing the sticky residue!

These were all kids’ sweets. But as soon as rationing ended other varieties soon appeared, among them Mars Bars, a real treat to be cut into slices and enjoyed by several people who would manage a single piece each.

Happy days.

January 9 – Prime Minister Anthony Eden resigned.

January 10 – Harold Macmillan (left) became Prime Minister.

January 16 – The Cavern Club opened in Liverpool.

February 16 – The “Toddlers’ Truce”, a controversial television closedown between 6 and 7.00 pm, was abolished.

March 25 – The Treaty of Rome established the European Economic Community (EEC).

April 9 – Egypt reopened the Suez Canal to all shipping.

May 15 – Stanley Matthews played his final international game, ending an English record international career of almost 23 years.

August 21 – US President Dwight D. Eisenhower (left) announced a two year suspension of nuclear testing.

September 4 -   The Ford Motor Company introduced the Edsel.

October 2 – David Lean’s film The Bridge on the River Kwai opened in the UK.

October 4 – Space Age – Sputnik program: The Soviet Union launched Sputnik 1, the first artificial satellite to orbit the earth.

October 11 – The Jodrell Bank Radio telescope opened in Cheshire.

November 3 –The Soviet Union launched Sputnik 2, with the first animal in space (a dog named Laika) on board.

December 4 – The Lewisham train disaster in the UK left 92 dead.

Born in 1957

January 11 – Bryan Robson, footballer

February 9 – Gordon Strachan, Scottish footballer and manager

March 10 – Osama bin Laden, Saudi-born Islamic extremist

April 9 – Severiano Ballesteros, Spanish golfer

April 25 – Eric Bristow, darts player

May 10 – Sid Vicious, rock bassist (Sex Pistols) (d. 1979)

July 18 – Nick Faldo, golfer

August 22 – Steve Davis, snooker player

They died in 1957

January 14 – Humphrey Bogart, American actor (b. 1899)

May 16 – Eliot Ness, American policeman (b. 1903)

June 1 -  Jimmy Dorsey, American jazz musician (b. 1904)

August 7 – Oliver Hardy, American actor (b. 1892)

October 29 – Louis B. Mayer, American studio mogul and former head of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) (b. 1885)

To look at he was certainly no Adonis, more a Mr Average, thinning on top and slightly overweight.

For years he eked out an existence with his fellow musicians known as The Saddlemen, playing popular music around the States.

It was all unremarkable stuff, mundane and un-extraordinary.

But then Bill Haley found the winning formula.

It really began in 1953. Shortly before then Haley and The Saddlemen had started using numbers with a rhythm and blues influence as a result of Haley noticing that white teenagers were tending to favour black music.

Such a mixture went down well and The Saddlemen achieved growing popularity.

After a successful first record in 1951 Haley-  born William John Clifton – longed for a second and  two years later made Crazy Man, crazy, the title being taken from a popular catchphrase used by  teenagers. It proved a hit and was later hailed as the first rock and roll record to enter the charts.

But another two years would pass before Bill Haley was to earn himself a place in pop history as the man who led a teenage revolution.

The song which catapulted him to international fame was a number issued on two previous occasions. Rock Around the Clock failed to take off – until it was included in a film called Blackboard Jungle.

Then –suddenly – the song was in demand and not only in America. Teenagers throughout the world flocked to buy it, the disc selling millions of copies. The record became the theme song of rock ‘n’ roll and Bill Haley its founding father.

Haley’s life at the top, though, was to be short lived – only about two years. But that one hit song lived on and on. In Britain alone it entered the charts on no less than eight occasions and even today is still regarded as the rock classic.

And the man himself?

He said of the rock ‘n’ roll movement: “We gave the teenagers something of their own, something that was strictly theirs.”

Following on from Rock Around the Clock Haley had several hits, although none ever attracted such hysteria. These included classics like Shake Rattle and Roll, See You later Alligator, R-O-C-K, Saints Rock ‘n’ Roll and Rip It Up.

Haley played on for many more years after his initial success, but had little else to offer.

As the years passed he faded from the scene, becoming increasingly reclusive and in his later years living in seclusion in Harlington, Texas, refusing interviews or to make a comeback performance.

But for many the memories created by the man they called he father of rock ‘n’ roll were still brought flooding back whenever that first hit record was played.

And the man himself?

He died following a heart attack at the age of 53 on February 9, 1981.