Caught in Crossfire of a 70s children’s party
RECENTLY, my youngest was at a mate’s tenth birthday party at one of those laser blaster places. They’re had a cracking time.
I’m reflecting that my kids have a better social life than I did at their age. Hells bells, they go to as many parties as I did when I was 18.
Most parents of pre-teens didn’t realise that this ‘partying on down’ would be part of the deal in the primary years; we simply didn’t expect to be spending our Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons watching our bairns going radgie in an everexpanding range of exotic venues.
Our own childhoods didn’t prepare us for this brave new world of lasers, padded play and pizza-fuelled hyperactivity.
Let’s think of a typical 70s or 80s party. The venue? No soul searching or keeping up with the Joneses here, pets; it was always at your own house.
Your mam might do an extra bit Hoovering and shift that aa’ful vase oot the way – but nowt flash.
If it was a particularly important birthday like the big one – oh, some balloons might be hoyed up, but there’d be no numbers on them or owt fancy like that.
The whole affair was a mamdirected operation. Fathas were ejected oot their chairs in front of the telly and banished to the garage, shed, pub or betting shop.
The food was always the same: paste sarnies (cut diagonally – didn’t want people to think we were one of them ‘problem families’), Jelly (one choice) and custard (oot a tin with proper powdery lumps), chocolate fingers (divv’nt touch. On a paper doylie) and finally – scones.
Back in the day, scones were the cornerstone of any kids’ party; they weren’t those pallid modern impostors, mass baked by some faceless multi-national supermarket chain. No, these bad boys were outsourced only to grans; lovingly baked the night before and then rushed round to yours on the back seat of granda’s Morris Marina.
They were placed next to the cake, a manky jam sponge – grudgingly made by your sister in Home Economics’ class, and then wrapped in greaseproof paper. This was essentially the same stuff you found hanging in the school nettie.
Then the magic was worked. Inside one of the scones a sixpence was carefully placed – and every child in the room wanted to be the one who found it.
We’d be biting into those babies like a Wild West saloon keeper testing for a dud coin. Dental damage was secondary to the thrill of the win.
Finally, every game then involved a blindfold – including, obviously, ‘blind man’s bluff,’ ‘pin the tail on the donkey’ or ‘journey to Mars.’
Injuries always resulted from this
CIA-type sensory deprivation, but were written off a simple by-products of ‘over-tired’ or ‘over-excited.’
Try a proper party like this today and you’d probably get a call from social services.
Finally, out came the main present. It was always a proper injurydodging, danger-filled 70s bad boy! A traction engine mixing meths, 10-year-olds and naked flames?
Crossfire – where you lay on your bellies and essentially fired ball bearings at each other’s faces in a vain attempt to avoid a trip to casualty?
Or a Chopper bike, just waiting to suck your flapping flares into the whirling chain and hoy you over the handlebars! Makes lasers and soft play look as tame as an episode of Play School.