In the sh*t

With new experiences being a little, well, thin on the ground at the moment I thought, to keep my interest in blogging high I'd regale you all with some tales from years gone by.

Hopefully, if I wrack my brain hard enough I may even be able to find the odd amusing one.

One that springs to mind would have been mid 70s. I would have probably been about 13.
We always played football 'down the front', an area of grass in the middle of the estate where we would congregate, pick teams and play for hours, I mean, all day sometimes.
I was a goalkeeper, and I was pretty good too, even if I do say so.
Always a slightly risky position back then, when people didn't pick up their dog shit.
Anyway, this particular day we was halfway through a game and there was a dispute over a goal, did it go in or did it go over the post, a jumper?
Always a contentious decision, did it go in or not.
Well this particular day I must have taken umbrage with an attacking player over said problem, as I told him to f**k right off, not how it usually went, but I must have been sure this shot didn't go in, as I wasn't letting this go. It may have been more that a telling, it may have been more a shout.
After an exchange of profanity's the game continued, I can't remember if the goal stood or not, it matters not.
A minute or two later and one of the my mates informed me that my mum was at the corner calling me.
The pitch was a couple of hundred yards from my front door. There was a small tunnel through to my house and mum was standing at the mouth of said tunnel.
An instant feeling of guilt overcame me as I walked towards her.
When within 20 feet or so I immediately said, 'I didn't say it mum'.
What was I doing, she'd not said a bloody word yet and I had already admitted my guilt.
Mum didn't do cross, not real cross, she did 'disappointed' which is worse, she would just turn her back and walk off, I would follow, metaphoric tail between my legs.
Needless to say my part in the game ended right there and then that day.