There's a reason why I still run around like a teenager as I enter my 5th decade and that is, an overprotective family. Whilst other teenagers were off chasing girls, smoking cigarettes and other such adolescent activities, I was climbing trees and searching for golf balls on the local links. Not that I did not enjoy these activities but it can become more than a little embarrassing when you're 18 years old and your grandma is coming to look after you because your mum is going out for the day. Mind you, the only time that I was allowed the freedom of the house (due to a logistical issue not a choice), my parents returned home to the dismay of finding a police car parked up outside. My new found freedom had gone to both my head and my trigger finger. A mixture of peer pressure and showing off, ensured that one of the neighbours, Mrs Eslick got hit in the arse with a pellet from my air rifle. The air rifle, until that point had been kept a secret from my parents. It was never to be seen again. I may have shot Mrs Eslick up the arse but in doing so, I shot myself in the foot. That was my freedom gone for another few years.
The height of my teenage embarrassment came one beautiful summers evening when a bunch of the cooler kids embarked upon a camping trip in the hills beyond Sunnybank cottages. I pleaded in vain to go on the camping trip but there was no way my mum was having it. We fought all day but in the end the only concession she gave was the chance to sleep in the back garden in our extremely old play tent. I reluctantly accepted the offer and pitched my tent in our small back garden. It wasn't until my tent was erected that I conceived the idea of waiting for my parents to go to sleep before sneaking into the hills to join the cool kids, in a frenzy of teenage pleasures.
Around 11 pm, as I expect, my parents come out to take a check on me. We chat for a short while before they retire to bed. I wait for another half hour or so, until all the lights are out and the toilet has been flushed several times and then I steal away into the night. With the stealth of a ninja I make my through the estate and through the snicket (small passage way), which leads on to the disused railway. I weave my way down through the farm yard and alongside the park, following the river to the main road. Fortunately it is a bright moonlit night and I am able to navigate the derelict site of the old Porrits mill without incident. With excitement and trepidation, I pass Sunnybank cottages and enter the woods where the unruly teenagers have set up camp. In the near distance I can hear the sound of the frolicking youths, as they drunkenly dance around the camp fire. I psyche myself up and enter the encampment.
Not being down with the cool kids and not having drunk a drop of alcohol, I am feeling more than a little nervous at this point. How will the cool kids react to me? Will they realise that I was forbidden to camp with them and have escaped from my play tent in the back garden? How much do they know? These questions are soon answered as I am hit by a torrent of abuse from my peers. My response, is of course to drink alcohol at an accelerated rate in an attempt to fit in as soon as possible. I do this a little too well and end up in a fight with Aaron Lord, who happens to be a black belt at karate. My drunken ego has taken hold and before I know it, I am being wrestled to the floor and upon my refusal to concede, Aaron brings his fist crashing down into my nose (breaking it for the first time). To make matters worse, one of the other boys has taken advantage of my prostrate position to stub a cigarette out on my cheek. Through the blur of my 2 pains, I can hear the laughter of the teenagers, which drives me on to rejoin the group in an attempt to distract my urge to cry.
I sit around the fire, trying to make idle chat with my tormentors, although inside I am fighting back pain and resentment (oh the joys of adolescence). However, it would appear that my fight with Aaron Lord has won me some credibility and I am even offered a beer from one of the boys. I take this as a sign, a turning point of my pubescent career as a cool kid. Against all the odds of an overprotective mum and a play tent in the back garden I have broken through the barriers of teenage angst and entered the realms of the cool. The group retires indoors and I am even offered a place in one of the tents, where we finish out beer by torch light.
Eventually, the torches are off and stillness falls upon our camp. Finding a small space, I lie back, my mind whirring with the events of the past few hours. Nose and cheek in pain but excited at the prospect of no longer having to avoid the places where the cool kids hang out. The air outside is still and there is little noise apart from the breathing and occasional snore of those around me. The camp is at one end of a valley in the middle of the countryside and it is the middle of the morning. As the my thoughts start to dissipate, my mind settles and I begin to drift to sleep. That is, until I hear a familiar noise in the distance and my mind tunes itself into this familiar frequency. It takes only a few seconds to realise that this is fact the noise of my parents Chrysler Alpine, which any Alpine owner will tell you, sounds like a bag of nails.
I cower in my sleeping bag, my mind awash with thoughts of how I can make my escape. I know that this is going to be embarrassing. I am unprepared for just how embarrassing it turns out to be. I do not concern myself with thoughts of my parents anger or any punishment I may receive. My only concern is for the embarrassment that I am going to face when my parents finally work out which tent I am in.
They're out of the car now and I can hear them walking towards the encampment. The light of their torch, creates a silhouette on the side of the tent and the cracking of branches under their feet causes some of the others to wake up. Their footsteps get closer and closer, until the they are standing literally a foot from me, only the material of the tent keeps us apart. By now many of the other youths have awoken and are shouting at the top of their voices, demanding to know who has dared to enter their encampment. In an attempt to redeem the situation somewhat, I try to whisper to them without waking those that sleep up, "I'm in here". This is an epic fail. By now almost everybody is awake and they all hear my pathetic whimpers.
I hear the tent doors being unzipped before my dad's head emerges through the flaps, a big cheesy grin on his face, illuminated by the beam of his own torch. A mili-second later, he is joined in the flaps by my mum, who has an equally cheesy grin on her face and is holding a tupperware box of sandwiches and a flask of coffee, "Oh Malcolm, here he is god bless him, here you are love, I've brought you some goodies to share with your friends". If there was every a time I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me, that was it. Here I am, a mollycoddled teenager, trying to prove himself to the boys, by fighting, drinking, smoking and hopefully indulging in pleasures of the female body and it has all be ruined by my over protective parents. I would rather them have dragged me out of the tent, kicking and screaming than this. Around me, I can hear the sniggers of my peers, as they relish what they are witnessing.
My parents hang around for what seems an eternity but in reality is around 5 minutes. I try to hide my swollen nose and cigerette burned cheek from my mum's protective eyes, to no avail , "Oh look Malcolm, what's happened to his face, oh, come here love what's happened?". "Nothing has happened mum", I spit back with vitriole. "Can you leave please?". She eventually, reluctantly does leave and I am left to face the flack from all the cool kids, who give me the wanker sign, as they help themselves to my coffee and sandwiches.
I am left, dwelling on the fact that I was almost up there with the cool kids but will now have to avoid the places that they hangout for another 5 years at least.
Monday, 31 May 2010
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
The fights
When you are 11 years old and starting Secondary school, it is very important to establish who is hardest in the school. I started Haslingden High School in September 1980 and the rumours had already begun before we had even been assigned our new class. A number of names were flying around the assembly hall about who was going to be "Cock of the school", as we refer to it in England. The pupils of Haslingden high school came from a number of schools from each of the areas that made up part of the Rossendale valley. The cocks of the primary school had already been long established. The names that kept recurring were Wayne Nicholas, Linden Page, Lee Halstead and Anthony Drake -guess what? They all ended up in my class. Great, I thought here comes 5 years of bullying. Wayne Nicholas it turns out, after a month of fights becomes the undisputed heavy weight champion of Haslingden High School, probably because he was a man, whilst we were all still kids. I discover this the first time we have football practice and a communal shower thereafter.
I get off to the worst of starts with Wayne Nicholas during my very first lunch hour at the school. The incident went something like this. We had just finished lunch and I am sparking up a conversation with my new class mates. A group of us are standing outside the dining hall, discussing who is the hardest lad in the school, to which Brian Kenyon replies "It's Wayne Nicholas, without a doubt, he was the hardest guy at our school and nobody will beat him. He once had a fight with Cornflake and wiped the floor with him". Now I don't know who this Cornflake was and I will probably never find out but what I do know is that my reply was met with total disdain and aggression by Wayne Nicholas, who was unexpectedly standing behind me. My reply went exactly as follows "What! that spotty faced,carrot nosed prick". This was in reference to the acne that taken a hold of his face and his hooter, which even to this day I can only picture as a carrot. Before my words had even ejected from my lips, Wayne Nicholas had rabbit punched me to the the back of the head and I was on the floor, pleading mistaken identity. The next 5 years were spent paying for this comment, quite literally, as Wayne took it upon himself and his Hench men to turn me upside down, shake me and empty my pockets of all its coin. In retrospect Wayne was the reason that I resembled a malnourished African in my formative years because I was unable to afford to eat lunch. I only wish that I was referred to as a starving Ethiopian in these times of middle aged spread.
Needless to say, I am well down the pecking order in the hard man stakes. In fact, I am slapped to the floor by Gillian King in the pie shop queue for pushing in, during my second year. I have to retreat to the back of the queue with a red hand print on my face and a quivering lip. If it wasn't for my ferocious temper I could have escaped any fights at all during my 5 years at school but my 2 second outbursts ensured that I had 2 fights during my time at Haslingden High. To call them fights is potentially against the trades desciptions act, as both of them bore more resemblance to a a circus act.
So, here we go, fight number one. I'll start with the less entertaining of the 2. Being located in a Lancashire cotton mill town, Haslingden high school has more than it's fair share of Muslims and being the early 80s, racial tension is running high. To put it bluntly, the blacks and the whites don't mix. It is almost like self imposed apartheid by both parties. The Muslims stick to their side of the playground and the whites stick to theirs and never the twain shall meet. That is until I get into a fight with a Muslim guy in what is known as the "Quadrangle", the area between the playground and the school. I could not tell you what this fight was about, my explosive temper once again got me into a situation which I did not want to be in. If I remember rightly the person in question was actually a friend of mine. My 2 seconds of sporadic violence subsides and I find myself surrounded by at least 30 kids shouting "scrap, scrap, scrap". No idea how kids do that but as soon as their is a scrap they are there, like doggers around a Ford Mondeo. The Muslim in question is pummeling me around the head with stealth, accuracy and power, whilst I bounce off the wall, still contemplating how I got myself into this in the first place. Not being a person with a fighting mind, I am unsure how to abate this barrage of Muslim fury. My only weapon is my flexible legs, with which I attempt to kick my aggressor in the head. Unfortunately, my legs are slightly more flexible than I ever imagined and my ridiculously over extended limb becomes lodged in a yellow waste paper bin which is attached to the wall at a height of approximately 4ft. I am literally stuck in the bin with one foot, whilst the other leg is doing it's best to keep me upright, which is not easy with Mohammad Ali using your head as a speed ball. My holding leg eventually gives in and I am left hanging upside down from the bin, quite literally "white trash".
Now, if you thought that was tragic, wait till I tell you about my second fight. Once again I have no idea how this comes about but I end up in a fight that I seriously do not want to be in. This time my slogging partner is Carl Green, who happens to be a very good friend at the time. I can only predict that the fight originally came about because he took offence to me calling him "Grotchy Green", which in hindsight is of no derogatory offence to his person, only his name. Anyway, Carl does not like to be referred to as "Grotchy Green" and it has almost come to blows on several occasions.
The location for our "pummel in the playground" is behind the prefabricated buildings that double up as overspill classrooms. Once again, news of our pugilistic act spreads like wild fire around the playground and herd of kids descend upon us like a swarm of Asians at the January sales. "Scrap, scrap, scrap", they so so delightfully chant. If only they knew what was to follow, they would have changed their chants to "crap, crap, crap". Carl Green being the aggressor in this little battle, throws the first punch, which as it turns out, is the only punch in the whole charade. Before I tell you the climax to this pathetic event, I should inform that besides my flexible legs, I also possess a huge mouth to my armoury. My party trick to this day is the ability to eat a moderately sized apple in one bite, OK it's messy and convoluted but an apple in one bite none the less.
The punch is hard and fast, far too fast as it turns out, for me to close my gaping face hole. His fist flies through the air and has totally enters my whole apple eating mouth, which clenches his knuckles with a Venus fly trap like quality. That's right, his whole fist is in my mouth and out of a mixture of shock and an inability to think of a better plan, I chomp down on his hand with the force of a pit bull terrier. Grotchy, who is as shocked as I am, tries in vain to release his fist but to no avail. It is check mate. Realising that he is not going to release his hand, he begins to claw away at my inner gums, whilst I retaliate by increasing the PSI of my jaw clench. Meanwhile, the crowd are still chanting, but as news of the futile spectacle, from the inner crowd reaches the outer crowd, they begin to disperse. The bell goes to signify the end of play time and Carl Green and I are left, 2 solitary figures, joined like Siamese twins, fist in mouth. There are tears in both our eyes and I want to concede but am unable to do so because I am unable to speak. Carl, is saying "Do you concede"? and I am thinking "of course I want to concede, my mouth feels like I could eat a water melon in one bite right now, never mind a moderately sized apple". However, a fist in ones mouth does no lend itself to speech.
Eventually, a mutual agreement is reached or rather a mute ual agreement is reached, using a mixture of charades and sign language. I open my tattered mouth, to release his swollen, black, tooth marked hand. We make our way back to the next lesson, 15 minutes late. The teacher asks me why I am late, I am unable to reply.
I get off to the worst of starts with Wayne Nicholas during my very first lunch hour at the school. The incident went something like this. We had just finished lunch and I am sparking up a conversation with my new class mates. A group of us are standing outside the dining hall, discussing who is the hardest lad in the school, to which Brian Kenyon replies "It's Wayne Nicholas, without a doubt, he was the hardest guy at our school and nobody will beat him. He once had a fight with Cornflake and wiped the floor with him". Now I don't know who this Cornflake was and I will probably never find out but what I do know is that my reply was met with total disdain and aggression by Wayne Nicholas, who was unexpectedly standing behind me. My reply went exactly as follows "What! that spotty faced,carrot nosed prick". This was in reference to the acne that taken a hold of his face and his hooter, which even to this day I can only picture as a carrot. Before my words had even ejected from my lips, Wayne Nicholas had rabbit punched me to the the back of the head and I was on the floor, pleading mistaken identity. The next 5 years were spent paying for this comment, quite literally, as Wayne took it upon himself and his Hench men to turn me upside down, shake me and empty my pockets of all its coin. In retrospect Wayne was the reason that I resembled a malnourished African in my formative years because I was unable to afford to eat lunch. I only wish that I was referred to as a starving Ethiopian in these times of middle aged spread.
Needless to say, I am well down the pecking order in the hard man stakes. In fact, I am slapped to the floor by Gillian King in the pie shop queue for pushing in, during my second year. I have to retreat to the back of the queue with a red hand print on my face and a quivering lip. If it wasn't for my ferocious temper I could have escaped any fights at all during my 5 years at school but my 2 second outbursts ensured that I had 2 fights during my time at Haslingden High. To call them fights is potentially against the trades desciptions act, as both of them bore more resemblance to a a circus act.
So, here we go, fight number one. I'll start with the less entertaining of the 2. Being located in a Lancashire cotton mill town, Haslingden high school has more than it's fair share of Muslims and being the early 80s, racial tension is running high. To put it bluntly, the blacks and the whites don't mix. It is almost like self imposed apartheid by both parties. The Muslims stick to their side of the playground and the whites stick to theirs and never the twain shall meet. That is until I get into a fight with a Muslim guy in what is known as the "Quadrangle", the area between the playground and the school. I could not tell you what this fight was about, my explosive temper once again got me into a situation which I did not want to be in. If I remember rightly the person in question was actually a friend of mine. My 2 seconds of sporadic violence subsides and I find myself surrounded by at least 30 kids shouting "scrap, scrap, scrap". No idea how kids do that but as soon as their is a scrap they are there, like doggers around a Ford Mondeo. The Muslim in question is pummeling me around the head with stealth, accuracy and power, whilst I bounce off the wall, still contemplating how I got myself into this in the first place. Not being a person with a fighting mind, I am unsure how to abate this barrage of Muslim fury. My only weapon is my flexible legs, with which I attempt to kick my aggressor in the head. Unfortunately, my legs are slightly more flexible than I ever imagined and my ridiculously over extended limb becomes lodged in a yellow waste paper bin which is attached to the wall at a height of approximately 4ft. I am literally stuck in the bin with one foot, whilst the other leg is doing it's best to keep me upright, which is not easy with Mohammad Ali using your head as a speed ball. My holding leg eventually gives in and I am left hanging upside down from the bin, quite literally "white trash".
Now, if you thought that was tragic, wait till I tell you about my second fight. Once again I have no idea how this comes about but I end up in a fight that I seriously do not want to be in. This time my slogging partner is Carl Green, who happens to be a very good friend at the time. I can only predict that the fight originally came about because he took offence to me calling him "Grotchy Green", which in hindsight is of no derogatory offence to his person, only his name. Anyway, Carl does not like to be referred to as "Grotchy Green" and it has almost come to blows on several occasions.
The location for our "pummel in the playground" is behind the prefabricated buildings that double up as overspill classrooms. Once again, news of our pugilistic act spreads like wild fire around the playground and herd of kids descend upon us like a swarm of Asians at the January sales. "Scrap, scrap, scrap", they so so delightfully chant. If only they knew what was to follow, they would have changed their chants to "crap, crap, crap". Carl Green being the aggressor in this little battle, throws the first punch, which as it turns out, is the only punch in the whole charade. Before I tell you the climax to this pathetic event, I should inform that besides my flexible legs, I also possess a huge mouth to my armoury. My party trick to this day is the ability to eat a moderately sized apple in one bite, OK it's messy and convoluted but an apple in one bite none the less.
The punch is hard and fast, far too fast as it turns out, for me to close my gaping face hole. His fist flies through the air and has totally enters my whole apple eating mouth, which clenches his knuckles with a Venus fly trap like quality. That's right, his whole fist is in my mouth and out of a mixture of shock and an inability to think of a better plan, I chomp down on his hand with the force of a pit bull terrier. Grotchy, who is as shocked as I am, tries in vain to release his fist but to no avail. It is check mate. Realising that he is not going to release his hand, he begins to claw away at my inner gums, whilst I retaliate by increasing the PSI of my jaw clench. Meanwhile, the crowd are still chanting, but as news of the futile spectacle, from the inner crowd reaches the outer crowd, they begin to disperse. The bell goes to signify the end of play time and Carl Green and I are left, 2 solitary figures, joined like Siamese twins, fist in mouth. There are tears in both our eyes and I want to concede but am unable to do so because I am unable to speak. Carl, is saying "Do you concede"? and I am thinking "of course I want to concede, my mouth feels like I could eat a water melon in one bite right now, never mind a moderately sized apple". However, a fist in ones mouth does no lend itself to speech.
Eventually, a mutual agreement is reached or rather a mute ual agreement is reached, using a mixture of charades and sign language. I open my tattered mouth, to release his swollen, black, tooth marked hand. We make our way back to the next lesson, 15 minutes late. The teacher asks me why I am late, I am unable to reply.
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