122 December 1969

What little confidence I had in Gillingham manager Basil Hayward disappeared completely when he sold Carl Gilbert to Bristol Rovers. I was sorry to see a crowd favourite go, but in good cheer I set off for the match against Tamworth, believing the Gills had every chance of extending their cup run. Even Basil Hayward couldn’t muck up an FA Cup tie against non league opposition. As usual I met Paul at the bottom of Eastcourt Lane, an arrangement we’d perfected. He left Wingham Close at half past two, and I left Aylesford Crescent a couple of minutes later. If Paul wasn’t already coming down the slope from Beechings Way, I could count on him coming into view as I strolled down towards the ESAB factory.

Gillingham 6 Tamworth 0

Six! Yes, six! And Bailey got a hat trick. Yes, the much derided Ray Bailey!

At school…

I was pleased with the collapsible bookshelf I made in woodwork. That’s how I described it to Paul, who was tickled by the description. It fell short of collapsing, but it was wonky enough to wobble thirty degrees either side. Handy for putting against an uneven wall, I thought.

Alas, my performance in that term’s exams was poor. Very poor. From a position of comfort in the A1 steam – a position that had never been under threat – I’d dropped like a stone, finishing second to bottom of the class, despite coming top in Art for the fourth time in seven exams.

Bloody hell, I didn’t expect that.

I well knew the consequences of finishing so low. The bottom two regularly got demoted, sometimes three.

Blast!

I only had myself to blame. Demotion seemed certain but as nothing was said before we broke up for the holidays, it gave me a straw to clutch.

Dad didn’t kick up over my bad report. If he read it, he never said, and I wasn’t going to ask. On his orders I was leaving at Easter anyway, so perhaps he wasn’t bothered.