It was about this frisky time of year in the real age of austerity when I slapped my thighs with renewed relish, pinned a silver star to my puny chest and started saddling up my carefully - named Western Super Mare for a gentle canter across the parish prairie.

My biggest treat since relishing a birthday book in March suddenly sneaked into view as I moseyed past Coypew Creek, Strawstack Gulch and The Ginger Pop Saloon where Wyatt Burp held court.

Yes, a cowboy annual repeat as main festive present under my bed could hardly wait to unwrap itself, with Hopalong Cassidy. Gene Autry and Roy Rogers usual chief suspects for putting it there.

Any tinges of guilt over mixing carols and trimmings with the season of bangers and bonfires soon disappeared as I pored over a recently-discovered gem that Roy Rogers had been born in Ohio as Leonard Franklin Slye in 1911 – on November 5th!

His wonderful four-legged friend Trigger carried that evocative name from the start of their galloping partnership

A posse of television adventures full of dusty action from Bonanza to Wagon Train and Bronco Layne to Wells Fargo, along with amiable partnerships like Lone Ranger and Tonto, Range Rider and Dick West and Cisco Kid and Pancho, sharpened young appetites for printed souvenirs’ as bedtime reading.

I recall how such a habit encouraged me to put out feelers round the village to see who might be in sharing mood, especially after a visit from Santa. Perhaps it sounds more like some sort of dodgy drugs deal behind the bike shed but I assure you swapping a Rupert for an Eagle or Beano for a Dandy amounted to nothing more sinister than a legitimate cultural transaction.

My new year role as Loan Arranger sat comfortably with a burgeoning reputation for being mighty quick on the draw when it came to neat lines as excuses not to be lured into domestic chores. I saw no point in chopping wood or cleaning shoes while pesky outlaws and cattle rustlers roamed unchallenged across our old aerodrome.

When Gene, Hopalong and Roy took breaks to catch up with little jobs on their respective ranches. I sought out other pillars of clean-cut living in constant pursuit of truth and justice. Dick, Paul and Terry introduced me to the tantalising world of ill-lit doorways, crumpled cryptic notes and last-gasp escapes

Dick Barton, Special Agent, starred as the BBC’s first daily radio serial at 6.45pm each weekday evening from 1946 until 1951. At its peak the programme attracted 1.5 million listeners.

I became hooked on the breathless exploits of ex-Commando Richard Barton who, with faithful sidekicks Jock and Snowy, solved all sorts of crimes, cheated all manner of dangerous situations and saved the nation from disaster time and again. “With one bound, Dick was free” became the most popular catchphrase in our school playground.

In the original test broadcast, the main character was called “Bill Barton” later changed to Dick to sound more dynamic. Good old Auntie BBC, mindful that innocent lads like me made up the bulk of their audience, had a strict code as to what Dick and chums could and could not do. One clause famously stated: “Sex played no part in his adventures.”

It’s generally assumed that Dick Barton was killed off to make way for an everyday story of country folk in 1951. The Archers was first broadcast at 11.45am on the Light Programme but proved so successful it was moved to the 6.45pm evening slot. Some radio historians claim another serial, The Daring Dexters, about a family of circus acrobats, filled the gap … but the notion that Dan Archer & Co finished fearless Dick Barton proved too strong to shake off.

Paul Temple, an amateur private detective and crime fiction writer, seemed far more sophisticated as he solved cases on the back of subtle humorous dialogue. His long-running radio adventures shared with journalist wife Steve – now, that name did confuse me - began and ended with haunting strains of Coronation Scot, a musical depiction of a train journey. The Devil’s Galop kept pace with Dick Barton.

Paul was a proper gentleman, charming use of the exclamation “By Timothy!” the nearest he got to swearing. I could have made him blush when our accumulator ran out just as he prepared to reveal whodunnit as I crouched expectantly beneath the kitchen table.

While Barton and Temple reinforced my growing belief that many of the best pictures were on the wireless, I turned to pages of my sisters’ weekly magazine to complete a hat-trick of flexing muscles with my crime buster.

Terry Brent, Detective set young maidens’ hearts a ‘fluttering in School Friend with dashing good looks, an ice-cool demeanour and charming generosity in crediting others with inspiring solutions.

For all that, I stayed true to earlier role models with Stetsons and holsters encountered on the annual trail to cowboy heaven under my bed. With one bound, I was free and back home on the range.