THE other week I was recalling some of the characters from Watford and the surrounding area, who came to mind with the launch of our book Watford In the 20th Century (Sw Herts in the 60s and 70s).

I have mentioned a few in the book but I could not name them all.

One such character in the early 1960s was Mo Mendem. who lived out at or was based near Maple Cross. I met him one Saturday morning near his garage base when a friend called in with a car problem. People talked about Mo’s fast driving and how he would crank the car up from Langleybury church and speed through the lanes late at night or early in the mornings when there was no traffic about.

Apparently you could hear his car across the countryside in the still of the night. Did I see or hear Mo? No I did not, so the story or stories were probably apocryphal and Mo was tucked up in bed with a mug of Horlicks, while his hairy motor resided unused in the garage.

Urban legends persisted. It was said there was policeman called Mahoney who lurked resourcefully around the North Orbital on his motor-cycle waiting to catch speeding motorists. He became something of a fantasy figure and whenever people saw a policeman on his bike in north Watford, they would assert in my hearing: “That was Mahoney.”

I did not look too hard as I was busy watching the speedo, making sure it stayed below the limit so I would never have known Mahoney if he arrested me. However, judging by the number of people who said “Mahoney” any time they were north of Hempstead Road and spotted a cop on a motorbike, I did get the impression that not only was Mahoney the only policeman between Watford and St Albans but also that he dyed his hair. In fact he probably did not, but it appeared to me, any policeman was dubbed Mahoney, whether he was blond, ginger, auburn or dark-haired.

I certainly drove with great care in that region, and when I had to call in at north Watford Police Station every morning to check the press list for incidents over the past 24 hours, I used to study the officers behind the sliding glass counter to try and see if I could spot him.

I never did although I once met his son when taking a caption for a basketball team at Francis Coombe. Mind you, I was not booked for speeding for the first 35 years in my driving life: I used to refer to it as the Mahoney-effect.

Talking of driving, I was a slow-starter and did not commence driving lessons until I was 19. I had planned to buy a Lambretta scooter but my parents talked me out of it with a promise to pay for my driving lessons.

Then it came to taking the test and I knew that would be a lottery. All the contemporaries who had taken tests and failed, told me to avoid “Sheehan”. Legend had it, he failed everyone and that if Stirling Moss had taken the test disguised in a wig, Sheehan would have failed him too.

It was worrying to think that all my hard work could be put to the sword at the whim of a man who just disliked giving out passes. I had been booked for two hours with the BSM driver in Queens Road – an hour for rehearsal and an hour for the test.

The moment arrived and a rather unsmiling man emerged and I prayed it was not Sheehan. He told me where to go and what to do and when I nervously completed a five-point turn instead of the normal three, I asked him if I could do it again as I could do a three-point turn standing on my head.

He replied in a monotone something to the effect of not asking me to do a three or five point turn but to turn in the road using forward and reverse gears. At the end of the journey we pulled up – I think it was Woodford Road – and he told me that I had come up with the requirements of the ministry of Transport driving test.

He duly signed the certificate and I returned to the office and then celebrated in the The Dog with friends at lunchtime. At some juncture, I was asked as to who took the test and I unfolded the sheet and peered at the signature.

Not only had he passed me, he had done wonders for my street credibility: “It was Sheehan,” I said proudly.

There was one other character, who was a strap short of a full sandal, who I shall call “Mick”. He was a body-builder, wore a tight white t-shirt across a wide, well-developed chest and completed the image with a Sinatra-type pork-pie hat.

He would walk up and down the High Street and if he knew someone, he might shape to attack them, driving them away. He gate-crashed a party once and the young host contacted the police when he refused to leave. The police shrewdly decided they would only remove Mick, if the owner of the house asked them.

The owner of the house was on holiday, so Mick stayed, but we knew the police were using their loafs, as the saying went at that time. Apparently Mick had punched through the plate glass window of Fine Fair and it had taken five police to arrest him.

It may have been another urban legend but the trick with Mick, I was told, was that he only proved aggressive to those he knew. So if I saw Mick, I would opt for evasive action, like staring at the window of Dorothy Perkins with rapt attention.

One day I was standing in a booth in W H Smiths, listening to a new release while compiling my weekly record column. I was tapped on the shoulder and asked for as light. I turned and took in the fact it was Mick.

I proffered a shaking match, tried to avoid eye contact, in the futile hope he might not recognise a 6ft 5inch beanpole in a hat, traversing the High Street. He thanked me and moved away.

However, it worked out well. Mick never did shape to attack me although it possibly had something to do with the fact I was on the other side of the street: always.