Ted Dakin recalls his experience of buying a new suit in Wigan when he left the army

I’d had quite enough of that khaki uniform, a uniform that had caused me so much maddening discomfort of itching and scratching, it used so drive me half mad.

So, wallowing in my now welcomed freedom from discipline, I couldn’t wait to do a bit of shopping.

There were no demob suits in those far off days, so I went shopping for a civvy street made-to-measure one, and my first call was Arkwright’s, the tailors.

Arkwright’s had a shop in Standishgate, where Primark now stands.

Now, don’t forget, I’m talking about a different world here, a world far different than today’s world of plenty, and a time when you wore the same clothes over and over again.

It was that long ago, we are now talking history.

Not world history, but a history of hard times, and of clothes that would stand some wear and tear.

The shop has now been gone for years, but when you’ve paid hard-earned cash for summat decent on your back, you don’t forget those times in a hurry.

Those where the days when buying a "proper” suit that cost a bob or two was bought on the “never, never” with a small down-payment, followed by payments of so much a week until it was paid off.

Anyway, two weeks after my first visit, I had a card summoning me back to the shop for a “try on”.

But what good is a new suit without a new tie?

So I trudged up to PA Kinley’s menswear shop in King Street and bought a shirt and tie.

I remember once having the courage to buy a trilby from "PAK’s”, as it used to be called, but I looked a bit like a cowboy, so I gave it to my brother John, who never took it off his yead.

Seeing that I don’t get out and about much these days, I often wonder if ties have gone out of fashion, because open neck shirts seem to be all the craze these days.

Personally, I can’t, for the life of me, go out shopping, or boozing, without a tie.

I once bought a green cravat and only wore it once, I found it too loose and irritating and not snug enough.

No, I’m a tie mon, through and through.

Apart from being an egotistical sod, I always try my best to look reasonably smart.

I think it all comes from my growing days way down in our dead-end paradise.

But I’m talking about another world again. A world of knotted white, silk scarves, like those worn by hardworking miners on Saturday nights.

I always think a white scarf looks much better round the muscular neck of the proper working classes, like miners or factory workers.

And somehow, they also remind me of the novels of George Orwell.

And, apart from my army days, I’ve never worn a pair of shorts.

What with my spindly legs, and varicose veins, and knobbly knees, I could have been a star turn in Dad’s Army.

And as I said at the beginning, it was my army days and my peasant upbringing that I had endured as a young man, that gave me the will to smarten up in later in life.

And talking about smartening up, I was called up in 1949 and trained to be a “killer” in case another war broke out.

And after six weeks training in Oswestry, North Wales, I, and a few more “killers”, were detailed off to Aldershot, where our “real” soldiering began.

On my very first morning, after our sergeant had brought us a cup of tea in bed and gently woke us from a deep sleep, I, and my new barrack room killers, had to dash (run like bloody hell) down to the barrack square for some parade ground drilling.

But suddenly, I had this urgent call of nature. I mean, when a man’s gotta go, a man’s gotta go. So I went.

But halfway through doing what a man’s gotta to do, a corporal came banging on the lavvy doors and shouting threats of unimaginable consequences.

When I finally reached the parade ground, the sergeant (not a happy bunny) marched me up and down in front of my battery, which happened to be "A” squad.

Using some very naughty language, and making derogatory references to my breeding, which were quite untrue, that night put me on guard duty with a rifle with no bullets.

My bowel movements have never been the same since that fateful day in 1949, when I became a killer in khaki.

However, before I was transferred to a base camp in Dorset, the squad had a group photograph taken, as a memento of our first, exciting days, but I can’t find soddin’ thing anywhere.

And I often wonder why?

But do you know something, even though I had the odd setbacks I have never regretted one minute of army life.

I went in a lad and came out a man, and along the way met many interesting characters, including "old soldiers”, who had signed up for as long as seven years.

Rough and ready blokes who didn’t gave a toss for discipline or officers and sometimes suffered because of it.

I even remember one rough and tough veteran, dropping his pants and proudly showing me his scarred genitalia that had been medically treated for some kind of syphilis.

And as I’ve mentioned in the past, after I was posted to Westmoors, in Dorset, I then went on to the officer mess to wait on their every need, that included being a barman, where I learned the art of mixing cocktails and earned a few back handers for serving drinks after time.

The gentlemen and the peasants, all in one pot, you can’t get a wider mix than that.

There was even one officer, his name was Captain Tommy Marsden, who had worked his way up from the ranks, but I didn’t envy him one bit.

I mean, just imagine trying to emulate your fellow officers, who had been raised with silver spoons in their gobs and knew every utensil on a lavish dining table to use next, and knew what to talk about as well.

And summat else. I’ll bet you a gin and tonic to a gill of bitter, that not one of those officers that I waited on had ever queued up in chippy or played dominoes in a pub vault, but they do their duty when it is asked for, and lead from the front.

And that is all that matters.