(gap: 2s) My childhood in late 1960s Liverpool was painted in the muted colours of council estate life—tower blocks rising like sentinels, the air always tinged with the scent of coal smoke and the distant clang of buses. Our family lived in a modest flat, its walls papered in psychedelic swirls, the coal fire a constant comfort against the northern chill. My parents, both products of their time, believed in discipline as much as they believed in hard work. Father was a quiet man, stern but fair, his discipline rare but memorable. Mother, on the other hand, was the enforcer of rules, her presence as steady and unyielding as the red-brick walls outside.
(short pause) Out of both my parents, Mother was definitely the one who used smacking the most, although I did get a few from my father as well. She only ever smacked me on the bottom, too. There was a certain ritual to it, a sense of inevitability that hung in the air whenever I crossed the line. I remember the way her eyes would narrow, her lips pressed into a thin line, and I knew then that there would be no escape from the consequences of my actions.
(pause) If we were out in public, she would never make a scene. Instead, she’d take me somewhere private to be done, such as a shop toilet or sometimes back to the car, her hand firm on my shoulder, guiding me away from prying eyes. The anticipation was often worse than the punishment itself—the echo of my footsteps on cold tiles, the hush of strangers just beyond the door, my heart pounding in my chest as I waited for the inevitable.
(short pause) At home, the routine was more familiar, but no less daunting. I’d normally be given my (usually quite justified) punishment in my bedroom, the small space suddenly feeling vast and empty as I waited for Mother to arrive. But that wasn’t set in stone. Sometimes, she would take me to my parents’ bedroom, the air heavy with the scent of her perfume and the faint trace of Father’s aftershave. Occasionally, I’d get tanned in the bathroom, the cold tiles beneath my feet grounding me in the moment. And on one memorable occasion, it happened in the living room, my bottom facing the windows out onto the street.
However, no matter what the circumstances, the spanking would always be administered. I remember one hopeful time, when I begged: “Mother, please, I’m really sorry.
“Why not?” she enquired, raising an eyebrow sceptically.
“Because it really hurts that way!”
“Owen, don’t you understand that’s precisely why smack you? This is meant to hurt – to teach you the lesson you need to learn.”
Without hesitation, she placed me in the traditional spanking position over her knee.
Another spanking I recall vividly was when I was in my pyjamas, ready for bedtime, but I was delaying the latter time after time, as I was playing a game. Mother finally ordered me to bed in a most peremptory fashion and, not thinking, I told her to ‘shut up’.
That was it – I knew I was in big trouble immediately. I don’t really know what came over me, as I was certainly not accustomed to talking by to my mother like that – I wouldn’t have sat down for a month of Sundays, had I done so.
Without hesitation, she dispatched me to my room, where I sat nervously on my bed, wondering what was going to happen but having a pretty good guess at it. My blood froze when I heard a drawer opening in the kitchen below and the rattling as Mother retrieved the wooden spoon she kept for use on her son’s bottom.
There was little delay between that and the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. She came into my room, smacking the spoon experimentally against her hand in a most unambiguous manner.
“Lie down on your tummy – now!” I complied.
“Why do I smack you bottom, Owen?” she asked. “To – to make it hurt, Mother.” “Yes, it is going to hurt very much. I think you’d better hug your pillow – you’re going to need it to cry into and I’m sure you don’t want the whole street to know you’ve been a bad boy.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I buried my face, already leaking tears, in my pillow to muffle the cries and screams we both knew the spanking spoon would elicit.
I felt Mother placing a firm hand in the small of my back to hold me still for my punishment, then there was a tremendous burning across my right buttock as the spoon found its target. This wasn’t just a spanking – it was a beating, and Mother wanted to be sure I would never, ever speak to her in that manner again.
When she thought I’d had enough, Mother ordered: “Make yourself decent and stand up.” I did so and stood there in front of her, crying like a much younger child.
“Are you ever going to speak to me like that again, Owen?” “No, Mother, I promise!” “Well, you’d better see you don’t. I think it’s about time we got a cane for you, my lad!”
I was left to cry myself to sleep. Mother never followed up on the threat of the cane, but in truth she didn’t really need a cane.
