To Cap It All. Kenny Sansom
time and time again – until she really had had enough.
As for me, I knew nothing of this man called ‘Dad’. He meant nothing to me or my life. I was happy that he was never around, but, unfortunately, he came into it with a loud bang when I became famous. You could say he chose to be with me when it suited him and being around me and my new world enhanced his life – not mine. My dad’s wish to be around famous people, whether on the wrong or right side of the law, was to cause me untold trouble and chaos.
Like our fathers before us, we formed gangs as children. We had our small tribes and let off bangers and Jumping Jack fireworks to scare our enemies. Never in a million years would it have entered our heads to use knives and guns like the gangs roaming our streets today. Our tribal gangs would rather play football or cricket against each other than look for trouble. Revenge was not on our minds.
The Sansom kids were all wild and free, but I think my little brother David and I were the naughtiest. We took no end of risks. Nicking Mars bars from Woolworth’s was a must for us. Although we never went short of essentials such as chops and chips, there wasn’t much spare money left over for sweets. Anyway, if the truth be known, we’d rather enjoyed the thrill of grabbing the chocolate bars and running away.
Playing ‘Knock Down Ginger’ filled hours of potential boredom and by the age of 8 we had progressed to nicking lead from roofs.
The scrap-metal man must have heard us coming from streets away as we pushed a pram full of lead towards his yard. We must have looked a comical sight and, of course, he knew we’d been up to mischief, but he always paid up and we eagerly shared out our ill-gotten proceeds.
We never went out looking for trouble. Who does? But trouble always seemed to find us. It’s funny how that happens. Nothing was our fault, you know. Like the afternoon we happened upon an old factory with a smashed window.
We had been entertaining ourselves by jumping across rooftops when we landed on the roof of what looked like a derelict warehouse. On closer inspection we were astonished to see loads of marbles inside. Well – this was like the Crown Jewels to us scallywags. Marbles! My God, finding a shedload of marbles was the luckiest thing ever. So we thought.
We scrambled through the broken glass and found ourselves gawping at Aladdin’s cave. From the outside, the building had appeared to be abandoned; but it wasn’t. It was a bloody chandelier factory, and the marbles were bloody crystals.
How could we possibly leave without pocketing some of the gems? Not a chance. We were going to take the jewels home to our mum and then we would be rich. Bingo! The lottery was won. But we didn’t get far.
As we were boldly leaving with our stash, the police sirens screamed down the lane and flashing blue lights came into view, scaring the hell out of us. Being a nippy little bugger, I was off up the drainpipe and across the roof before David was even out of the window. But how could I leave him? I was supposed to be looking after him. Mum would kill me if I abandoned him.
As I peered over the drainpipe I could see a burly policeman dragging David by the scruff of his neck over to his panda car. Damn! We had so nearly got away.
I shimmied back down the drainpipe and slid into the panda car next to my terrified brother. We were both wearing grey shorts and long socks that had fallen down around our ankles – so his bony knees were visibly knocking. We had been nicked. I was 7 and he was 5. What in God’s name was our mum going to say? We knew she loved us, but we also knew she would kill us for bringing trouble to her door.
Thankfully, the policemen took pity on our sobs and pleas for mercy and let us go with a clip behind the ear – but a great lesson was learned. We never nicked again. At the ripe old age of 7, I knew I didn’t like getting into trouble.
Maybe this is why I’ve only been booked once and only once been given a red card (Crystal Palace v Coventry). I can’t stand being told off, let alone be sent off. Being sent off meant being in someone’s bad books and therefore unloved. I needed to be loved.
I remember clearly that, once, my mum gave me one and sixpence (7?p) and sent me up the shops to get her a loaf of bread and some potatoes (for chips). The items only came to a shilling (5p) and for some reason I forgot the sixpence (2?p) change was in my pocket. When I found it I gave it straight to mum and she said, ‘For your honesty, Kenny, you can keep that sixpence.’
I was so chuffed and felt so good about myself that during my growing years I was never in danger of dishonesty. It was a bigger buzz to be trusted and loved, than naughty and always in trouble. Not that there wasn’t temptation all around me. I was growing up in south London, after all, where being naughty was the norm.
One of my best mates, Duncan Jelley, was still nicking stuff and selling lead to buy sweets. Although I was envious of his stash of goodies, I vowed I was never going down that scary road again. They say you make your mind up about important things by the time you are 7 years old and I’d go along with that theory. But Duncan’s done all right for himself, and he too has managed to stay on the right side of the law.
Running wild was what I loved the most. The thrill of jumping from one building to another and not knowing whether you’d actually make it to the other side in one piece was wicked.
I remember one day clearly. A group of us were scampering over the rooftops when we came to an extra-wide gap with a long drop to the ground. I calculated I could just about make it to the other side and as usual was the leader – so I went first.
One by one the others ran and jumped – hurling themselves to safety. Bringing up the rear was my mate Johnny Laws. Poor old Johnny didn’t quite make it. Sorry to say this, but it was bloody hilarious – he hit the side of the brick wall and slid down the building. It was exactly like a scene from Tom and Jerry. He must have seen stars. Fortunately, we weren’t too high up and he wasn’t seriously hurt. Had we been higher, he would have been a goner. He’s a black-cab driver now, and I haven’t seen him in ages – but I haven’t forgotten him. He fancied himself as a bit of a goalie, and, if I remember right, he was pretty handy.
Being a daredevil was highly enjoyable and, taking everything into consideration, I was lucky to survive without serious injury.
That said, I fell out of a tree once and got a painful poke in my right eye with a stick. Because I was ‘Lucky Kenny’, though, the stick just missed blinding me by a millimetre, and all I’m left with as proof of near devastation is a scar on my eyelid. If I had been blinded in one eye my football career would never have happened, and I might well have ended up getting into hot water like some of my schoolmates and learning the hard way: behind bars.
When I think back to the craziness of some of our antics I go cold. Take Bonfire Night, for example. We set rockets off in corridors, threw bangers through letterboxes, and Jumping Jacks found their way into enclosed spaces like phone boxes – while people were inside. Now I shudder at the lunacy of it all, but watching the mayhem was hilarious at the time.
One year we built the most humungous bonfire on the green in the centre of our neighbourhood square. When we lit it we were both excited and proud. But, as the flames licked high into the winter night sky, our excitement turned to panic and then horror as it flared up and went out of control.
The next thing we knew, three fire engines were clanging their way though the chaos and aiming their hose pipes at our magnificent bonfire. Once we knew it wasn’t going to be a case of ‘London’s Burning’ and that the firemen were going to save us, we began jumping on the hoses. Right little sods we were.
Another incident wasn’t so funny. There was this old and abandoned Morris Minor parked up near to our flats, and one day David, Duncan Jelley and I decided to jump all over it. It really wasn’t the most exciting of