In terms of drama, my childhood memoir appears sadly lacking. It starts promisingly, Mum and Dad arguing just after my birth, but deteriorates thereafter into eighteen years of relative wellbeing. The working title 'Nothing Much Happened' always seemed appropriate and yet?

There are the expected family members and friends looming large with tales of big potatoes, ABC Minors, rice pudding competitions, dodgy cars, Shakespeare monologues, co-educational touch rugby, cow pats, leaking tents, baked bean pies, record collections, cigarettes, bitter, Liverpool Stadium, nude paintings, drums, academia, girlfriends, and job interviews.

However, less predictable are the reminiscences of shoplifting, corporal punishment, drink driving, fagging, beatings, death, paedophiles, truancy, skinheads, and slums. Furthermore, the backdrop includes Suez, Rock n’roll, Thalidomide, Beatlemania, Labour and Conservative governments, Aberfan, England 4 West Germany 2, the Summer of Love, Apollo 11, power cuts, and the three-day week.

It’s a cliché to say writing can be cathartic, mainly because it’s true. We all have a tale to tell of our formative years. I thoroughly recommend having a go, even if you start off believing 'Nothing Much Happened'. The thing is… you may well end up thinking different.

From the author of 'Billy, Eric & Adolf' and 'The Kaiser, Fuhrer & John'.