ALAN Whalley is still recuperating following a recent fall. In the meantime, to keep the Whalley’s World pot boiling, we are dipping into bygone columns and publishing readers’ old photos, head-scratter or memories.

PLAYSTATIONS, video games, mountain bikes, DVD players and expensive mobile phones will figure high on Santa’s shopping list this year.

Anything less in-vogue (or in value) might be frowned upon by today’s younger generation. And yet, are they any happier than their parents and grandparents once were in joyously discovering a cap-pistol and cowboy hat, roller skates or a set of lead soldiers in their Christmas stockings?

Harry Bradbury doesn’t think so. And he’s penned a poignant piece about a typical Yuletide celebration among the side streets of St Helens during his own 1950s boyhood.

“It was Christmas Eve 1956 in Wilson Street”, he recalls “and we four little pals gathered on the street corner - me and our kid, Michael Manning and Harry Flood.”

The knee-high quartet were only of infant school age. “But we knew it was a special night as the mood was very different”, says Harry from Loughrigg Avenue, St Helens.

A sprinkling of snow on the street added to the atmosphere, with stars shining brightly in the jet-black early-evening sky. And it was perfectly safe during those more law-abiding times for kids to roam in the gathering darkness.

“We looked up, wondering which route Santa would be taking and discussed our behaviour over the previous few weeks. It was finally agreed that we had not been too naughty - in fact, fairly good - so the man with the big white beard would certainly be paying us a visit."

The little foursome wandered off to the Kirland Street corner where, in the uncertain illumination from a gaslamp, a crowd had gathered listening to carols being played by the Salvation Army band.

People popped coppers into a collecting plate while across the way, Skellands, the bakers, was enjoying roaring trade.

“Suddenly a hooter sounded”, recalls Harry. “The Pilks glassworks had let out and soon the workmen on black bikes came pedalling past. All wore customary flat caps and they smiled and gave us a wave.”

As evening set in, the mothers shouted for their kids to return home. “Normally we’d scarper down the back entries so we could stay out a bit later. But not tonight.”

A warm and welcoming scene greeted Harry and his kid brother. The parlour nicely decorated with crepe rings - the family had made their own decorations - and a roaring coal fire in the open grate. “No skimping at Christmas time!”

After putting out the carrots, mince pies and a glass of sherry for Santa and then checking that the Christmas stockings were hanging in place, the excited brothers climbed into bed to wrestle with their sleep.

It was an early rising next morning - around 6am. Initially, Harry opened just one eye, just to make sure that Santa had already paid his visit. “The stockings were bulging. We grabbed them, racing downstairs to see what we’d got.

“Not bad at all. Some toy soldiers, and our special favourite, a cowboy hat and cap-pistol in its holster. We must have been good kids to deserve this.”

But the morning peace did not last long, as the brothers scampered around the house, firing their toy guns and waking up the whole household (“Well, we had been well-behaved for a full fortnight”).

Thoughts then turned to Christmas dinner. “It was special that year, as we were having chicken. We’d heard of turkeys, of course, but had only seen them in the butcher’s window. Never mind, a chicken would do very nicely.

But there was no tucking in until after the Queen’s Christmas broadcast.”

At last, knives and forks were raised. The chicken and roast potatoes were scoffed first by the young brothers, before they were made to tackle their sprouts, being told that these were good for their health. “We disagreed, of course, but eat them we did.”

Back on the pavements, the Bradbury kids met up with the rest of their side-stret gang, examining each other’s presents and taking imaginary pot-shots at passers-by until their pistols ran out of caps.

“Never mind, Roy Rogers and Hopalong Cassidy would get them on another day.”

It was now getting late and the anxious mothers were on the front step calling their offspring inside once more. “We vanish down the entries”, says Harry, “but are caught and have to step indoors for a reluctant wash and climb into bed. What a day! But sadly, our next Christmas seems so far away.”