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Phil Bell was born in 1949 in the Ancoats district of Manchester.
The canals of Ancoats was our Amazon Rivers, it was a cursed place and yet we played on it even though it claimed at least three lives a year. We swam in it and made rafts on it, we swam up near the Navigation Pub, just beyond the locks, it was clearer although no cleaner there.
We would swim in our underpants, we never took our trunks, my mother said to me one particular day, 'if you go swimming in the canal again I will come to school and tell the Headmaster' how did she know?
I did find out how though. Unknown to me when my ma washed my underpants they turned a very pale shade of blue from the waste water that came out of the dye works further up the canal, they were whiter than any of my brothers. That and my Auntie Annie saying 'I think I saw our Phil swimming in the canal'. Grassed!
One of our teachers Percy Rees said that a survey had been done in the 1930s and the area we lived in was judged to be the most unhealthiest place in Britain. We were a quarantined island in the middle of Manchester, surrounded by all the remnants of the industrial revolution. As if we didn't know.
Fourteen years of age and five feet ten inches tall, I had started going out with the girl of my dreams, the best looking girl in school, Jackie Littler, we were an item.
I had my tweed overcoat and my girl. We listened to the Stones, The Pretty Things, The Beatles, The Searchers; we started going to Wood Street Mission, life outside the confines of our house was looking pretty good.
Wood Street mission was a great little club, and then to the Wheel, the Oasis, the Jigsaw, coffee bars The Cona, The Favourite, Snacktime, Bodega Rowntrees and hundred of other clubs, to see hundreds of other bands.
It was easier then, none of the clubs sold alcohol so consequently very little trouble happened at the venues.
We would go to Grey Mare Lane Market to buy bellbottom pants plus tassels and bells to sew on the side seams. Because my parents had zero tolerance they would not let me wear bellbottoms let alone sew bells and tassels on them.
Enter Mrs Hurst, Eddie's mam Ethel, friend of the gang. She not only told us where to buy them, she would sew them on for us. Ethel was a valuable commodity during our formative years, she lent those who smoked cigarettes only the the odd one though, those who were skint, a couple of bob.
She would let you bring your girlfriend back to her house, she would let you stay, if you wanted to, or if you wanted to have a drink you could crash back at her house. She was a one hundred carat diamond lady.
I left school at fifteen to become a hairdresser at Hudsons Corporation Street, my girl Jac worked at Marks and Spencer, we would sometimes meet and have a love and a kiss, and then go back to work content.
As often happens when some things in your life start getting good, some one comes a long and kicks you smack in the teeth and a kick in the arse.
I used to walk home from work; it was easier and cheaper, this day I had walked slower than usual up from Corporation Street. I eventually got to Bollington Road and I saw my Uncle Tom Walsh stood at the bottom of our landing stairs.
As he saw he started to walk towards me. You know that feeling that you get when you have cold water poured down your back, that's what I felt when he walked over to me, I knew something was wrong.
'Phil' he said in his quiet voice, 'It's your granddad, he took ill this afternoon', I butted in 'can I go and see him is he in hospital?', 'no, sorry, I'm so sorry' said Uncle Tom.
I knew then he was dead. I ran up the stairs he was still sat up in the chair and he was lifeless, head bowed, hands clenched tight.
I dreamed of him that night, I dreamed I was a little boy again he used to take me all over Manchester; he would show me what damage the bombing had done to the city during the blitz.
On a Saturday night he would take me to Tib Street and the area around the Smithfield Market. All the vendors would be selling their wares from barrows, all lit by an eerie green glow from the pressure lamps and gaslights.
The last page had been ripped from my book of childhood and was to be buried in Philips Park cemetery in Clayton. That was when I knew my childhood was truly gone.
Phil Bell, Greater Manchester, 2001
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