Here in Bolton on a wet windy night,

With cowboys and indians galloping round,

Boris Karloff gave us such a fright.

A Yank in the RAF, Tyrone Power at his best,

Betty Grable with legs and blonde curls,

I realised then that me and my mates,

We were different than those lovely girls.

Roy Rogers and Trigger, Hop Along and Tom Mix,

The cartoons, the News reels, the Trailer,

There was Bluto, Popeye, and Olive Oil his girl

Yet she never married her sailor.

The smoke would rise from all those fags,

Rising through the spotlights glare,

But we didn't worry about that then,

Watching Tarzan we hadn't a care.

He'd swing through the trees, from a bush to a branch,

With Cheetah and Jane he was made,

And if he found himself in a mess,

His elephants would come to his aid.

Howerd St had the Empire, and boy what a place,

It was dirty but we didn't care,

Watching Old Mother Riley and her daughter Kitty,

Sitting there in wet clothes and stale air.

We'd laugh and we'd giggle all evening through,

Right through to God save the King,

Then a rush for the door as we all declared,

We're not stopping for that flipping thing.

Laurel and Hardy they were just great,

The Palladium with serials to,

We'd sit there for hours eating Spanish and nuts,

And all of us wanting the loo.

We'd 22 cinemas in Bolton just then,

And I've been in them all through the rain,

How I'd like to queue for the Lido once more,

Or go to the Queens once again.

But now they've all gone it's a different age,

We've got tellys and computers they sell,

I miss all those palaces for pictures and laughs,

And I'd love a night out at the Belle.

F P

Bolton