WORKING on our new publication Watford in the 20th Century (south west Herts in the '60s and '70s), I spent some six months mentally returning to the decade. People I knew, friends I’d had a drink with, girls I went out with – they all returned to my focus, hovering in the background as I wrote about the era.

It is amazing how much you can recall and the names that tumble to the front after having been locked away in the brain’s attic for years.

Pete Lannigan and Bernie Murphy were two names that came to the fore when thinking about Watford in the very early 60s. I heard their names but was never able or that bothered about putting a face to them. They were two characters who apparently stood no nonsense and became part of the town’s folklore.

I didn’t know either of them but I did know a character called Alfie Walker, who I met back in the days when I was responsible for the newspaper’s swimming coverage. Alfie, a Buddy Holly look- alike with black framed specs, was a swimming pool attendant, and I got to know him and enjoyed the exchanges at Watford Baths.

Alfie disappeared from my life round ’62 and reappeared the following year. We went out for a drink a couple of times and he told me he had a bad temper but I never witnessed it. Gradually we lost touch but the thing I remember about him most was that, without fail, he made me laugh.

I would see Alfie about the town – I worked at the West Herts Post right on The Parade, overlooking The Pond. Another character I recall from those days was a strapping man with receding hair who sat on the tail-gate of British Rail parcel lorries as they delivered their parcels around town. He was probably nearly seven foot tall and would jump down when the lorry stopped, pick up a hefty parcel like it was a bag of sweets and discharge it to the appropriate business or shop, leap back on the tailgate and thump the side of the lorry to signal he was ready to go, with legs dangling down towards the road. We never thought of Elf and Safety then.

Two more familiar sights were Big Harry and a chap we dubbed de Gaulle, because he looked fairly similar to the French president. I think someone told me they were bank messengers, but I would see them regularly around town, pedalling bikes that had the appearance of a Sherman Tank on two wheels. They both wore hats and would sit upright with a military bearing.

They would nod in my direction when they saw me for I knew them from Vicarage Road where they acted as gatemen for home matches. Big Harry would have a series of ribbons on his large navy blue greatcoat and would stand at the main entrance, blocking out the light, or so it seemed, as he inspected your ticket.

I have not thought about those characters in years but they came flooding back as I started to live once again with the 1960s. In our new publication, Watford in the 20th Century (SW Herts in the 60s and 70s) I have mentioned a couple of other such characters whose paths crossed mine, at some time during the spring and Summer of 1963 However, they went to achieve national fame.

There was a well known skit by Tony Hancock who was working for the local press and had a sticker that said “Press”, stuck to his hat. The essence of the Hancock character was that he fluctuated between humility, philosophical reflections and pomposity.

With his Press-hat he was pomposity itself, moving between people, exclaiming: “Excuse me, Excuse me. Press! Please move out the way. Press.”

I have never seen anyone act that way in real life but one night, at a party in Oxhey, a tall lad, perhaps a year younger than me, shaped to flatten an imaginary hat and called out “Press” as he moved out of my path.

We talked briefly over a glass of beer and I ascertained his name was Dave ’Don’ Donovan who lived off Oxhey Lane. A couple of weeks later I was asked to help man the door at a private house party and when answering the doorbell, spotted Don and invited him in. We talked a lot more, became friends and within the year he had talked me into going into computers – the coming thing.

He lasted the pace better than I but our friendship all but terminated when he emigrated to Canada and was last heard of working on the computer in charge of the Toronto traffic system. He called in to see me early in the 70s but then disappeared without trace, having been a good friend for a spell.

I recall we would meet up by The Pond at lunchtime in 63 and pool our meagre resources to buy a packet of Henry Tareyton cigarettes, which you could get in packets of five from the tobacconist and sweetshop, Walcotts.

Whoever contributed the most money would have the odd cigarette in five and we would lean against the railings and watch the world go by, studying the local talent and musing generally, perhaps that Marianne Faithful might come by and ask where she could purchase a Mars bar.

Late adolescent memories but what stood out about Dave Don Donovan is that he went everywhere with a pair of hand-held bongo-drums.

“That,” as they said at the time, “was his bag” and he stood out as a character.

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