By late 1977, the world was changing. Everything was in full colour now – the days of black and white were just a distant memory. Thankfully, Donny Osmond had been dumped by most wee girls and David Cassidy had simply disappeared. Sadly, it really was ‘Bye Bye, Baby’ for the Bay City Rollers, because now it was clear that ABBA reigned supreme. Meanwhile, at school, Ian, formerly of the TITS, was going on about some new thing in the NME called ‘punk’. He was predicting that punk would hit the teenyboppers so hard that ABBA would be forgotten forever.
Irene Maxwell was getting very excited about a new film that was coming soon, with disco dancing and music by a group from the sixties called the Bee Gees. It sounded rubbish to me. I was more interested in news about a truly amazing movie that was about to be released. Apparently it was called Star Wars, and the clips I had seen on John Craven’s Newsround made Doctor Who look wobbly.
Although I had never imagined it would ever happen, parallels were actually going out of fashion so fast that you could get a pair for 99p in the bargain bucket in John Frazer’s. Only the biggest hard men and millies were still buying them. (Titch McCracken bought two pairs.)
Northern Ireland, though, was just the same – them and us, and killing and blame. I was six inches taller and the peace walls were twenty feet higher. It was harder than ever to be the only pacifist paperboy in West Belfast when the hatred ruled everything. It was becoming clear that the Troubles would be for ever, so I realised I would either have to get used to it or get out of it. I couldn’t get out of it, so I would just have to get used to it.
By now, I had delivered thousands of papers, and my paperbag was deepest black in hue. Oul’ Mac was a little older and a little yellower, but he had invested in a brand-new Ford Transit van. This was twentieth-century newspaper delivery. My employer had his new vehicle painted yellow, of course. After several months of gathering ‘Wash Me’ graffiti in its deepening dirt, it started to look exactly like the old van. This was Belfast after all, hard-wired to resist any apparent change.
I was changing, however. My fangs had been brought under control, and I no longer had the appearance of a bloodsucking monster. My brace was binned. Sources of distraction from my paper round were growing all the time. Schoolwork was harder, and homeworks were heavier. I now had GCEs looming, and they were like ten Eleven Pluses in a row. After-school clubs and new school friends from North Belfast were drawing me away from the streets of the Upper Shankill more and more. I stopped going to the Westy Disco every week, and on some Saturday nights I would visit friends’ homes on the Antrim Road and in posh Glengormley. These were families who lived in chalet bungalows and went to Spain for their holidays. They had never been to a caravan in Millisle and their living rooms showed no trace of woodchip.
When I set out as a paperboy, my dreams were of being the Doctor with a TARDIS and a long scarf, fighting intergalactic battles with the Cybermen. Now my dreams were more likely to be of Agnetha, the blonde one from ABBA – and these imaginings were taking on a whole new narrative.
Sharon Burgess had changed too. It was never the same after the Lord Mayor’s Show. She never did win my big brother’s affections, but I let her go. (Well, to be honest, she chucked me shortly after, and then she cancelled her Bunty.) Now Sharon got Jackie and was going out with a wee lad who was taller than me and stacked shelves in the Co-op on a Saturday. This was a rung or two above the vocation of the humble paperboy. I survived, though. For a while, the nice ladies in the lingerie section of the Great Universal Club Book kept me going. Then my attention turned to new girlfriend opportunities. I found I couldn’t decide between church youth-club girl, chemistry-class girl or girl-next-door girl. I was keeping my options open.
I still enjoyed being a paperboy, but the six-nightly commitment was seriously starting to get in the way of being a teenager. The end was inevitable. Of course, I couldn’t just leave, though – I needed something better to move on to.
But then it happened: I was headhunted. I was approached by Leslie, the local bread man, and the Shankill’s leading Orangeman. Leslie asked me to become a van boy – not in any ordinary bread van, but in the last Ormo Mini Shop in Northern Ireland! The Ormo Mini Shop was like a cross between an ordinary bread van and a caravan. You could walk inside: it was a proper shop on wheels.
This was promotion. How could I turn down such a tempting job offer? Most paperboys could only dream of an employment opportunity like this. I jumped at this chance for career advancement and accepted the job immediately. Working for Leslie would be a one-day-a-week job: Saturday mornings only, for five hours and at twice the money. It would be a daylight job all year round, and I would be inside the mobile shop and out of the rain at least half of the time. I wouldn’t have to walk everywhere. No wee hoods would be up in time to try to rob me on a Saturday morning, especially with an adult on board. And I had heard you got free Paris buns.
But how was I going to break the bad news to Oul’ Mac? I was sure he would be angry, and I was certain that Mrs Mac would be absolutely heartbroken. I considered a written letter of resignation, but I realised that was not Oul’ Mac’s preferred method of communication. So I decided I would tell him face to face and man to man. I would even give my employer one week’s notice – not like other boys, who on their final day would simply tell him where he could stick his paper round.
When the momentous day of my resignation came, it started out like any other. Oul’ Mac arrived in the new dirty van with my forty-eight Belfast Telegraphs as usual. He pulled on the handbrake with a screech and, with the engine still running, got out of the driver’s seat, walked around the van in grumpy silence and opened up the rear doors to reveal a treasure trove of newspapers and glossy magazines. He then leapt into the rear of the van, cigarette in mouth, and dispensed the papers. I waited until the end of the paperboy queue that day. Oul’ Mac must have realised something was amiss because I had earned first place in the queue long ago.
When the other paperboys had all gone, I finally spoke to my employer, as he was cutting the familiar tight white string on my batch of Tellys. I took such a deep breath that I inhaled some of his copious smoke.
‘I’m leavin’, Mr Mac. I’m sorry, I’ve got too much homework to do now and … er, I’ll be doing GCEs and, um … there’s nothing wrong with doin’ the papers, and I go to clubs after school and can’t get home in time to do a good job any more, ye know, and I don’t want to let you down but I’m leavin’ next week, I’ll leave my paperbag into the shop next Saturday after the Ulsters and thanks for the job and I’ve got a Saturday job now instead …’ I spluttered incoherently.
A long concertina of ash fell from Oul’ Mac’s cigarette. For the first time ever, he patted me on the back, and his eyes sparkled a little.
‘Aye, all right, wee lad,’ he said.
I was a paperboy no more. My career had just taken off like Thunderbird 3. I was a breadboy now, so I was.