I remember my very own flasher. I was walking down Motspur Park (the road - not the village) after I believe an evening at Ross Hutchinson's house in North Cheam because I had a few issues of Art & Artists under my arm. So it was probably during my years in the sixth form. It was dark. A car pulled up. A bloke asked me through his open passenger window which was the way to New Malden. I pointed out that he was going the wrong way but all he had to do was turn round and turn right at the end of the road and he couldn't miss. All of a sudden he changed his tone and started asking if I knew where you could find any women etc - in slightly more unpleasant language - and then he said, "Here - look at this," and pointed down. I stepped back, shocked, and walked off. I heard him turn round and drive off. I couldn't believe it.

I remember one evening at The Rising Sun - probably the only time I had a drink there - in Surbiton when we were sitting in the beer garden and the infamous Mick Foster walked over to a (feathered) bird that seemed to be in distress and wrung its neck. He was just putting it out of its misery.

I remember a party at the infamous Mick Foster's house. There were ants crawling all over the dishes on the kitchen counter.

I remember another party at another house. A young lady whose name I remember but shall not divulge had been saved from the evil clutches of the infamous Mick Foster, I think by someone offering her a lift - or maybe just a drink. I bumped into Mick on the stairs. Apparently heartbroken, he said: "Damn. I was just about to slip her a length." He looked a bit like Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, but with none of the class.

I remember St George's Day parades.