Somebody’s house was always available for a party, or at least that’s how it felt. Ronnie’s mum and dad, Ron and Val, were as often as possible at their caravan in Brid (well Robin Hood’s Bay to be precise) and the only downside that night was the 20 minute walk from the pub. Last week had been at Maureen’s home, a mere 5 minute stroll.

Just before Spring Bank Holiday, a balmy Saturday evening in May ‘69, word of our party plans had spread amongst the usual crowd at The Devon. An hour before last orders were due to be called, we were heading out into the night and, as ever, every one of our merry band was already, well ‘Merry’. We had bought plenty of cans of Tet’s and bottles of Pale Ale (that most distinctive and more-ish brew) and these had been squirrelled away earlier in the week in Ronnie’s garage, well hidden behind Ron’s Sign Writing equipment, (he was also a jobbing Painter and Decorator, mainly for Val), in amongst the sheets and ladders, the myriad tins of paints and the boxes of expensive brushes. We had each contributed a fiver so there would be more than enough for us all, but anyone else who joined us would also be expected to buy something from the ‘Offie’ on the walk through Crossgates. The night was young and so were we.

The music on the record player was loud; we all danced to the beat of Jimi, the Beatles, Swinging Blue Jeans, Dave Clark Five and the Stones then smooched in the company of Elvis, Patsy, Diana and Roy, until eventually we all drifted off, alone or not, to some quiet corner to sleep it off.

I woke in the total darkness shivering with cold and desperate for the loo. I have no memory of being put fully clothed in the bath, but apparently it had been very funny and quite surprising that I had not woken. My thoughtful but guilt-ridden mates (the three of them were grassed up by Ronnie several years later) had carried me through to Ron and Val’s bedroom and wrapped me, still fully dressed, in the duvet on top of the bedcovers.

I somehow extricated myself from my wrap and unsteadily made my way to relieve myself. I took a left turn and found myself in the box room, apologised to the snoring occupants, before turning 180 degrees and meandering across the landing. Relieved and relieved, I weaved my way back to the right side of the bed (the long way round), got completely stripped from my wet clothes and climbed under the sheets.

Now, I hear you ask, ‘Fifty some years on, how can you possibly know all of this detail, David ?’

No need for Inspector Jacques Clouseau; the answer lay in the path of right footprints that went from the tray of light blue emulsion paint that I had stood in at the end of Ron and Val’s bed.

As I recall, Ronnie’s parents didn’t visit their caravan again until late in August.