Another preoccupation that is ruining relationships is television. Although it is capable of educating, increasingly its content is becoming base and morally corruptive. Those who dismiss this as untrue are already being destroyed by it. To be without a TV means that people have to learn how to respond to each other's emotional needs. Fortunately, we didn't have television when I was a child. Instead people clamoured for the cinema. But while it sometimes taught debauchery, and on a much larger screen, we saw much less of it. Film censors of the time refused to allow abusive films to be shown. Used wisely, television could be of great benefit in many ways, but instead it is used as a tool of commercial "Babylon" and to promote Godless politicians.

Back then, members of the working class couldn't afford to dress to the standard seen today. In outward appearance we could go about dressed like 'the pits',  just so long as we had one or more of the parts that resembled a suit. What I mean is, we wouldn't have been arrested for showing flashes of white from beneath a hanging patch on our rear for instance, even if it was as big as this page. As long as we looked clean, with a nice parting, we were acceptable.

In retrospect, I couldn't claim I was a good son for very long, or so I was often reminded. Try as I would, something or other   and it had to be dangerous or risky   would feature in my scheme of things. Playing at being well behaved soon became boring. And while feeling this way, I met up with a well known and incorrigible bunch, up to some new daring. The leader, Donnie, a wiry individual, was on the prowl for excitement. His full complement, usually around a dozen, hung on his decisions.

"Yer comin' Ron?  We're going scrumping," shouted Donnie.

"Where?" I shouted back, anticipating something exciting, as they never did anything ordinary when all the gang were on the prowl.

"Dunno.  St Martin's Road end, I s'pose,"  he replied nonchalantly, walking on.

We rarely visited that part of Caerphilly, as they were a snobby lot. But raping their fruit trees seemed somewhat appealing. I tagged along. We sauntered along, chatting away, until we reached the lane. Chatting dropped to whispers. Half way down the lane there was a small garden, with prohibitive spiked railings.

"Look-at-those-nobs!" someone whispered loudly.

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