MAC was the dog that bit everybody. He was the scourge of the side-streets and could flatten an unwary cyclist in the batting of an eyelid. For most of the passing pedallers it was a case of once bitten twice shy, and they quickly learned to adopt a defence strategy when passing the Owen family's home in Thatto Heath where that big brown mongrel lay in wait. Trying to fend off Mac with a frantically thrashing leg was a pointless exercise. It only made him take a firmer grip on the flapping trouser leg of his quarry and assisted him in dragging the pedal-pusher off his machine.

The only way to avoid the pain of gravel-rashed knees and deep anxiety was to pop both ankles on to the cross-bar when turning into Springfield Road -- keeping both legs well clear of the jaw-snapping menace. Once past Mac's beat, it was then safe to hastily lower feet to the pedals and whiz away as fast as the wheels would take 'em!

Our favourite owd codgers, Norman Owen and Harry Worthington, currently penning their memories of a wartime childhood, will doubtless trigger boyhood memories of 'Mad Mac' for many veteran Donkey Commoners who once ran that canine gauntlet. Harry and Norman have proved a big hit with readers since I started publishing extracts from their recollections. This has inspired them to keep scribbling away, and I'll be carrying further episodes over coming months.

We'll swiftly move on from four-legged to two-legged characters from the past. A kid called Joe Kerrigher was the catapult king. "The gang used to call him Dead-Eyed Dick", recall the two old pals.

In shoot-out challenges, the urchin groups would aim at tin-cans, set up on top of the local electricity sub-station. The catapulters would first start at a set mark, then gradually walk back, increasing the degree of difficulty. Those who missed gradually dropped out.

"But Joe was bang on target every time", say our long-memoried pair. And Joe had a rather more questionable claim to fame. "He could hit a window from 100 yards".

Joe, apparently, had a secret component in creating his home-made weapon which released pebble and lead-slug missiles with deadly long-range accuracy. Explain Norman and Harry: "He once let on that he got the elastic -- thick, tough and wide stuff -- from his mother's old bloomers. We had to make do with cast-off garters".

Another knee-pant character held in high esteem was Johnny O'Brien the conker champ from Upland Road. "He pickled his conkers in vinegar and could beat his opponents first smack!"

Among the more mature brigade was George, the fireman at the Empire Cinema, Thatto Heath. He was an unwitting killjoy at times with his heavy-duty disinfectant spray, intended to kill off any possible bugs or germs in that old fleapit of fond memory.

"Two young girls of that era, Sheila and Lily, have spoken to us, after reading earlier pieces about the Empire, to tell us of their own experiences", reports Norman. "They remember canoodling in the back seats with two boyfriends, holding hands and listening to the romantic ballad, 'Blue Moon', on the sound-track. Their heads were in the clouds when fireman George came round and gave them a soaking with his spray".

The romantic mood was immediately drowned out!

Boyhood gangs were strongly influenced by the feature films screened during those 30s to 50s times. "If Robin Hood had been featured, it was dangerous to cross Thatto Heath Park immediately afterwards". Imitating the Sherwood Forest exploits, knots of kids would leap out from trees and bushes to ambush the unwary schoolboy passer-by.

Thatto Heath had its share of young 'hard knocks' ("That's why there were so many good runners among us"). A lad nicknamed Pol, who died some years ago, was among the toughest. "They say that instead of having his name on the headstone, there was the line 'Who are you looking at?' carved there", Norman quips.

But there was none of today's viciousness involved when it came to old-time street-corner scraps among the lads. There was a rather gentlemanly ritual before fisticuffs began. Firstly, the verbal challenge, with a forefinger prodded against the chest of the potential opponent. If the challenge was rejected, the pair would then walk away. If accepted, the tussle would last only until one or other submitted.

"There was none of that 'put the boot in' business that we have today", say our old chums. "They might have been hard-up and rough and ready times, but we had certain standards".

MORE from the dynamic duo's memory bank soon...