'There's an icy wind blowing down Chapel Street' - former Advertiser reporter remembers a Christmas long ago

There's an icy wind blowing down Chapel Street. It seems to swoop in over the houses, undoubtedly funnelled on its way by the looming edifice of St Andrew’s Church.

On and on it goes, deflecting off the old Co-op building, heading round that famously sharp corner, and perhaps losing just a little momentum en route to the Prince of Wales pub… and who knows where beyond.

It’s certainly cold out there. So when we do leave the warmth of the Il Cadore, and head for the Benn Hall, there is no doubt at all that these waiting chilly fingers will soon feel their way through coat and jacket, serving as a reminder that we are now in the very depths of a British bleak midwinter.

“Fancy a pint at the Dirty Duck before we go down the hall?” says my mate Bob. Yes, why not. There’s nothing like a pint of Ansells bitter, it’s just the perfect brew for apprentice drinkers like us.

Especially when accompanied by a Gold Leaf tipped cigarette. Isn’t that right, Bob?

We drain the last drops from the shallow glass cups that have held our Tinzanos, a green, brightly coloured drink that tastes of nothing all that identifiable, other than a vague, acidic fruitiness. Strange drink, that Tinzano.

Our two wayfarers step outside into the freezing wastes of Chapel Street. “See you later down the hall,” we chorus to no one in particular.

Leather-coated girls, with white lipstick and unblinking panda eyes momentarily look up and stare briefly in our direction, and then return to their conversations.

The blokes just nod. Anything more than the barest, minimum signs of recognition would just be so un-cool, right?

The Dirty Duck is full of men in their late 20s. They belong to another generation really, the Teddy Boy era. But now they’re all probably married with a young family, settled down. Not that this stops them popping into the Duck for a Christmas drink, mind.

“Two pints of bitter and 20 Gold Leaf please,” says Bob. We just about find seats, light up, and talk about what that evening might bring.

This being Christmas, it should be a good old night down at the Benn. There will be a couple of groups playing, probably Sam Spade and the Gravediggers with the Reprobates as support. Or it could be the Beat Preachers, perhaps the Liberators. Ah no, not the Liberators – I seem to recall they’re playing Nuneaton Co-op Hall tonight.

The beer goes the same way as the Tinzanos and then we’re off. Left at the lights, past the Crown pub and the Clocktower, pause to peer in the window at the Windmill, and it’s down North Street heading for the Benn.

Pushing open the doors, we go up to the desk on the right, and show our tickets. We’re nodded through and decide another beer would be in order. The bar’s on the left and is already full. We pass a couple of bouncers who eyeball both of us but say nothing.

They know full well that when it comes to trouble, we’re the absolute minnows in this particular pond. The big fish will be lurking in the reeds down by the stage. If there’s any bother tonight, these will be the ones in the middle of it.

Mind you, they won’t be bothering small fry such as Bob and me. Just don’t catch their eye, though. No point in asking for it.

The Reprobates are already onstage. They’re playing You Really Got Me by the Kinks, and it’s a really authentic rendition. Then it’s Chuck Berry time, and my, that guitarist has certainly got every Berry lick off pat.

The girls move around the dance floor in small shoals, picking their dancing spots with what seems to be great care. In a single movement, down go the handbags.

They form a ragged circle on the floor, reminding me of the covered wagons in a Western. Except that no one’s going to be circling this all-female enclave for a while, at least. It’s far too early. Timing is everything down the Benn.

By 10 o’clock the Christmas rock ‘n’ roll hop is in full pelt. The dancers’ techniques display a great range of styles, from the clodhopper who looks like he’s trying to shake something unmentionable off the bottom of his shoe, to the more skilled.

Hey, there’s Bob McCance. He’s just got back from London’s Carnaby Street, and not only wearing the most up-to-date Mod gear, but is also demonstrating the latest dance moves.

Bob McCance is the alpha male round here and there’s simply no point in trying to compete, let alone queer his pitch. That really wouldn’t be a good idea…

The dance draws to a close just before midnight in order to conform to the Sunday entertainment laws. Bob and I have had a fabulous, 1965 Christmastime Rugby night out, and it will be a lie-in tomorrow before we both emerge slightly bleary-eyed and sit down for our respective families’ Christmas dinners.

Yes. The Il Cadore, the Dirty Duck, then the Benn Hall. Oh, what a night.

John Phillpott devotes several pages to the traditional Warwickshire Christmas in his book Beef Cubes and Burdock, available from bookshops and on the internet.