CLOG irons, worn smooth and shiny by kicking up showers of sparks against roadside kerbs, were the nearest that Ken Melling and his boyhood chums came to owning ice-skating blades.

But reckless, amazing and skilful were some of the winter performances given by the urchin pack along the frosty side-streets of Ken's native Parr.

Somehow the winters seemed deeper and longer in times gone by. And the kids prayed for snow, so that they could slide along it, creating long ribbons of polished ice along the tarmac (universally known as 'slairs'). Under the glimmer of the gaslamps, the local lads would perform their party tricks along these miniature bob-sleigh runs.

Johnny (Spudder) Walker was the undisputed 'king of the slair', mastering all the tricks, such as whizzing across the icy surface at full crouch, sliding backwards and on one leg, although most of the kids were dabhands at their own individual 'event.' "The speed one could reach on these slairs was tremendous," says Ken, of Chancery Lane.

And when ice skating interest waned there were other wintry pursuits to join in. "Gangs of kids would spend hours over the old chemical tips, sitting round old oil drums with holes punched into them all over. We'd fill these with wood and coke and set them alight," Ken recalls.

"I can still see them now, in my mind's eye, glowing red and white-hot in the freezing weather, with jacket potatoes placed on top." Then, laughing and joking, the kids would fish them out of the flames, half-raw and so burned on the outside that they'd leave young mouths and teeth blackened.

"These old tips ('Kimmicks') were a paradise," says Ken, "so high in places that we could play at mountaineering. We would dig trenches on the lower slopes, using the soft chemical clay as ammunition in war games." When the tips became blanketed with snow, there would be sledge runs down them. Nearly all of the school holidays were spent playing on those spoilheaps.

But there were many other games played in the streets throughout the seasons, most of them chasing games or tests of endurance, Lampo, Pie Crust, Skilly, Tin Can Bung-off, among them. And then there were the really mischievous ones, such as Big Man, where a kid would climb onto the shoulders of a mate, wrap an adult overcoat around them, don an old trilby hat and bang on some neighbour's door, demanding to know the time. With the neighbour spitting out his annoyance, the topmost kid, unbalanced by all the giggling, would often tumble to the ground and have to scramble to his feet sharpish to escape a quick kick up the backside.

Then there was the old double-knocker trick. The door knockers of two adjoining terraced houses were tied together with a taut length of rope before being loudly rapped in unison. The object was to witness the frustration of the neighbours as they pushed and pulled against the resistance of the rope, trying to get their front doors open!

But Ken is keen to point out that no malice was intended. It was just a display of high spirits in days before laid-on entertainment such as television and computer games.

And he points out another facet of our changing world and its values. "One of our gang used to go shopping very early on Saturday mornings with his mother, calling at a market stall known as Cheap Jack's. Later that morning you'd find him running hell-for-leather up and down the street, wearing an old German helmet, complete with spike, waving a rusty cavalry sword or brandishing an ancient army musket."

Ken signs off: "Every time I watch the Antiques Roadshow on TV, this always crosses my mind; wondering what value would now be put on Johnny's bargains bought for a bob or two from Cheap Jack's."

GREAT stuff, Ken! I'm sure countless customers of this column will identify with that peep-back to clog-iron days.