Pav’s Patch; Every street had a nasty old Mrs Battle-axe

WANT to know how to cure the problem of yobbish youngsters?

I have the answer — bring back the battle-axe.

When I was a lad, playing among the back-to-backs of Dukinfield, it seemed every street had a nasty old woman whose only purpose in life was to hate children.

They would suddenly appear and berate you with sayings like: “I know your mother, and when I see her I’ll tell her what you’ve been doing.” Even though you’d been doing nothing.

If you tried to say a word in your own defence, they would look at you open-mouthed, unable to say anything because of the gravity of your sins.

I often used to play with a lad called David who lived down the road. The land at the back of his house was used as anything from a Wild West ranch to a football or cricket pitch.

And at least once a week, Mrs B would emerge from her back gate to tell us off — even though we were very well behaved — and to tell me I had no right playing there because I lived about 100 yards away.

I would usually hang my head to avoid eye contact as she sounded off at me, and then she’d have another go. “Never mind looking at your shoes”.

Then one day, from somewhere, a piece of twisted metal appeared in the back.

David looked at it and, for some strange reason, started to spin around with it in his hand. He went faster and faster, and eventually he either let go or it spun out of his grip.

And where did it fly? Right over Mrs B’s back gate. You have never seen children run so fast in your life.

We eventually regrouped under the railway bridge in nearby Corra Street — convinced we would all be hung from her beloved washing line. “If you lot put a speck of dirt on my sheets . . .”

However, Mrs B wasn’t alone. I’m sure her sisters worked as my dinner ladies.

And her next-door-neighbour was hardly pleasant. In fact, I’m sure she used to listen out for Mrs B’s attacks and then join in herself.

One October, the two of them joined forces to tell us how they were going to call the council to have our bonfire wood removed.

Fortunately, David’s mum came to our rescue on that occasion, waving a tea towel to emphasise her point that the wood was staying there until November 5.

Funnily enough though, we were never told off for chalking on people’s houses. And when I say chalking, I mean with half a brick, not chalk...