Why I Hated Jimmy Savile!

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is the true story of how Jimmy Savile affected my young life

WHY I HATED JIMMY SAVILE..... By Chris Pickwell

Grifters… Choppers… Tomahawks… Budgies… Cow horn handlebars… Ten speed gears… Peddle back brakes… Handle grip gear change…playing cards pegged to the forks and positioned directly into the spokes so they go phlackphlackphlack really fast when the wheels go round… What am I talking about? Why, the pushbike scene of 1977 of course… but none of this was for me, oh no, because I had the greatest tricycle in the world… in my opinion… some might disagree, but they’d be wrong.

Large, blue, heavy tubular metal frame and white solid rubber tyres, this baby was the Pontiac of tri-wheeled transport. Having already been handed down through at least thirty years of children, it was more like a tank than a bike and I could literally hurl it down the three concrete steps outside our house, holding on for dear life, and the pavement was more likely to come off worse.

But then it happened… the most traumatic and emotionally turbulent time in my almost four years on this planet. We were all so excited about the upcoming event, the piece de resistance, the glace cherry on the bakewell tart of our lives, I am of course talking about ‘The Royal Marine Tattoo’… an extravaganza of low flying aircraft, freefall skydivers with red, white and blue smoke pouring from canisters strapped to their ankles, and ultra fit soldiers simulating live firefights on the freshly mown lawn before us.

Myself, being the youngest of four siblings, was almost piddling myself with anticipation, not least of all because my pride, my joy, my precious tricycle had been loaned, I repeat ‘loaned’, for the duration of this military spectacle, to none other than Jimmy Savile… Mr Jim’ll fix’it… Sir Jim!... imagine my glee when I learned that this icon of children’s TV was to ride my bike in this, his heyday on British television….. I should just clarify at this point that when I mentioned in the previous paragraph that I had spent almost four years on this planet that I meant that I was only three years and ten months old… I’m not an alien visiting earth… just thought I’d make sure we’re all on the same hymn sheet is all.

Now let me explain why Sir Jim’ll was riding my tricycle in a Royal Marine Tattoo in that blissful summer of 77…. erm… he was a mascot, nothing more than a pointless symbol, an honorary Royal Marine, an insult, a filthy smear to the reputation of one of the worlds most elite fighting forces!... A big, floppy haired, rubber faced, Jewellery wearing gypsy who came out of his mum’s arsehole and i'm guessing some of it rubbed off!!!

..…and breath… okay… sorry about that… I just get so upset when I think about…….. you see, when the big moment finally came and the bastard came out riding my tricycle…. It was red… my beautiful blue machine had been painted red!... or so I thought… in truth, I never ever saw it again. 

You see the tricycle that he rode out, looking like a ***** in a pixie costume, wasn’t actually mine. I don’t know who’s this impostor of a tricycle was but it wasn’t mine. My precious had been viciously and mercilessly destroyed in rehearsals and subsequently scrapped shortly afterwards... and that was that.

I've never fully recovered from the shock of finding out the truth, and I’m sure I never will, but what I will tell you is this, a word to the wise if you like… Never never never never never never never never never never never never ever lend your child’s tricycle to a fully grown, slightly over weight and potentially paedophilic 70’s nightclub manager… trust me on this!


Submitted: March 31, 2012

© Copyright 2021 chrispickwell. All rights reserved.

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