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Becoming a teenager was the time to experiment with clothes and find your own style, recalls Stuart Haywood, of Church Gresley. It was the 1950s, when every Teddy Boy worth his salt had a DA, drainpipes, brothel creepers and outrageous coloured jackets and waistcoats. But, Stuart’s wacky sartorial taste did not suit everyone in his local community, as he soon discovered.

Former Teddy Boy Stuart Haywood hits the town dressed to the nines

I have had a touch of the dandy about me ever since my teenage years. Until I reached that age and started to earn my own living, I had to wear what the school or my parents dictated.

One could hardly become the Beau Brummell of Swadlincote by wearing the uniform of Burton Grammar School. From an early age, my attempts at sartorial elegance were doomed to disaster.

Every year, my parents bought me a new suit in order to appear on the platform at the anniversary celebrations of the Central Methodist Church, Newhall.

I remember clearly a disaster that occurred to my sparkling suit on one occasion. I had been invited to the birthday of a cousin and my mother allowed me to wear my anniversary suit prior to the chapel function.

Having got dressed up in my finery, I though that, since we had a wait of half an hour, I would take a short walk in the nearby fields. This was a mistake.

I met a friend and we were soon engaged in a kick-about with a small ball. Everything went well until, on making a sharp change of direction, I slipped on a small cow pat and fell full length on to the grass.

Unfortunately, the cow responsible for the pat had been on the move at the time and had left a long trail of small pats. Naturally, I fell sideways on to the trails.

When I returned home, I was not greeted with open arms and I certainly didn’t smell of roses.

My first serious attempt at wearing fashionable clothes did not receive the admiration I expected. I had bought a conventional charcoal grey suit from a market trader and had him modify the trousers to make them narrow. I had only worn this suit on a couple of occasions before I went on holiday to Blackpool.

Derby Hippodrome

“This is just the gear to wear on my visit to the Tower Ballroom,” I thought. “I’ll knock ’em dead.”

When I got to the entrance of the Tower Ballroom, however, my passage was abruptly stopped by a large gentleman. “You can’t come in wearing those trousers,” he said. “They are too narrow.”

I did eventually gain admission, but I had to return to my digs and borrow a pair of trousers from my friends. Unfortunately, he was shorter than me and had very short legs. When I wore the trousers at usual waist level, I was exhibiting about six inches of sock.

“That’s not very sartorial,” I thought. “I’ll have to wear them low at the waist.”

To get the right leg length meant that I was wearing the trousers very low, resulting in the crutch being not much above my knees. A couple of years later, I had bought a bright blue suit which was my pride and joy. Fingertip-length jacket and 14-inch trousers were just the ticket.

To complete the ensemble was a yellow shirt with a “slim Jim” tie and a bright red waistcoat. My shoes were green suede beetle crushers or brothel creepers. I attended a pop concert at the Derby Hippodrome thus clad and was met by much approval from fellow teenagers.

My reception a little later, on the main street at Long Eaton, was not so enthusiastic.

A middle-aged woman ran across the road, ignoring all traffic perils, and grabbing my lapels, pulled my face close to hers, screaming: “You must be b..... colour blind,” then returned over the road.

My green suede shoes led me into trouble in Swadlincote. I had the shoes for some time and the crepe soles had become smooth.

Stuart and a friend enjoy a night out in the 1950s

It was a wet night and before making my way to the Rink dance hall, I decided to visit the public conveniences outside the Market Hall.

They were down a flight of fairly steep steps and I slipped on the top one. My feet shot from under me and I hurtled downwards. I came to a halt at the wall 10 steps down. My split lip and battered nose did nothing to enhance my appearance and I made an early exit from the dance.

I think that my greatest debacle, however, took place a few years ago at Wokingham. Just around the corner from where I was staying with relatives, a pub was holding an evening of chamber music.

This is the type of music which appeals to me these days and I decided to go. As one will realise, the venue could definitely be described as posh.

The route to the venue was out of a new housing estate to a main road, across the road, turn right and round the corner. Dressed to the nines, I made my way to the main road. Two of the road lights were not working. I could make out water lying in the gutter as I crossed and I could see the kerb behind it, so I leaped over the kerb and on to the footpath.

It seemed an eternity before I encountered terra firma. It was a great shock to find that, as my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, that I had jumped into a ditch about four feet deep, containing a few inches of water.

Bravely, I hauled myself out, holding on to tussocks of grass, and made my way to the pub. On entering, I was greeted by bright lights and a babble of conversation.

“I say, Rodney,” said a highly-polished man at the bar: “I went to Saddlers Wells last night and Nureyev danced divinely.” I appraised my mud-covered hands, mud-spattered clothes and mud-caked shoes – and left.

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