When I was about 11 or 12 years old, I took part in an orchestrated assault on the nuclear bunker which reputedly belonged to our local aristocrat, Lord Guisborough. This finely-tuned operation took us the best part of a day to co-ordinate. My mate Swinny and me went from house to house on a recruitment drive, presenting our amazing plan to our friends, in the style of the Magnificent Seven (we thought). We managed to convince Graham Young to come with us, in the end I think. Some time later he was to run away from home, leaving behind a note which indicated that he was headed for the fantastically ambitious destination of Porno Heaven: Amsterdam. He was no doubt traumatised by the dramatic experiences which were to take place on our audacious raid. He got as far as Whitby, actually, but then he ran out of busfare. But I digress - there were definitely only three of us. We laughed at the turpitude and cowardice of most our acquaintances, and all the while, as we stocked up on chocolate at the shops, and as we raided Swinny's dad's garage for tools, we fantasised about the hidden opulence of 'cool things' which we felt certain we were about to uncover at Lord Guisborough's bunker. I seem to remember anticipating a combination of red velvet curtains (or is that Porno Heaven intruding again?) and lots of those big metal boxes for storing ammunition full of ... well, full of things that our friends would be very envious of, like erm, rations and vintage champagne, and guns, and oh, I don't know. Anyway, having mobilised our forces, obtained our supplies and identified and obtained the equipment necessary for breaking into a nuclear bunker (a large hammer, a torch, a screwdriver, a pair of pliers, and, of course, one 'black widow' catapult, if you ever need to know) we set off. It was about a forty minute walk, and I swear my legs shook all the way there, I was THAT excited (if only it was still so easy...) When we got there, we implemented our carefully formulated plan, hiding in the undergrowth at the bunker's entrance, while Swinny, our experienced super-criminal (it was HIS 'black widow') attempted to pick the padlock with our secret weapon - Swinny's brother's 'skellington keys' (I can't tell you how mythical and potent these objects were, or how much risk was involved in their unauthorised removal from Swinny's brother's Meat-Loaf-palace of a bedroom). After a few tense minutes of this, Swinny's legendary impatience rose to the surface and we were forced to adopt a more direct approach, which fell more in line with his own intentions. Graham and me stood anxiously on look-out, on top of the bunker, while down below, in the undergrowth, Swinny brayed seven layers of shit out of the door, with the hammer, screwdriver, and his hands and feet, in a violent fit of frustration and rage. I seem to remember that, sadly, the screwdriver was 'lost in action' at about this time. There followed a brief interlude, during which we hid in the bushes from a curious farmer, obviously alerted by the furious racket, and tried to persuade Swinny not to demonstrate the effectiveness of his catapult, which would have undoubtedly blown our spurious cover (and we could both vouch for its effectiveness, anyway- as Swinny was somewhat fickle with his loyalties...). Our second assault on the lock was considerably more successful - we sacrificed vigilance for brute force, and all three of us kicked fuck out of the door until it - rather than the lock, I think - eventually gave way. We peered into the gloom, and tried to identify the humming, alien shapes lurking at the back of the bunker. We flicked on the torch, to reveal the prosaic machinery of an electrical sub-station. One of the biggest disappointments of my life, I'm sad to say.
