Simon Mark Smith’s Autobiography
CHAPTER 11
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1972 – First morning on Roundshaw
Mum calls me into the kitchen, as the song, Concrete and Clay, is playing on the radio. “Come on, come and eat your breakfast, hurry up, you’re going to be late for school.”
* * *
19th October 2006 – Fulham – Sands End
Tonight, I’m teaching web design at a local adult education college in Fulham. There’s a football match at the nearby Chelsea Stadium so there’s heavy traffic and finally, when I get to the college, there’s nowhere to park, so I drive around looking for a space when a van comes up behind me. At first, I think it’s being driven by a fellow tutor but it’s not and as I proceed at about 10 mph the driver starts to flash his lights and honk his horn at me. I shout out to him that I’m looking for somewhere to park, to which he shouts back, “Fuck off you prick”. So, I slam my brakes on and drive even slower.
* * *
2006 – May The Force Be With You
My sons have just started at a new school, and they’ve already had a taste of bullying. When they told me today about it, I wanted to get the kid involved and threaten him into submission but instead, I told them to reason with him. They said they’ve already asked him to try and understand how it feels for them to be subjected to his behaviour, but he just replied, “I’m not you, so I can’t understand.” I then recommended they speak to the teacher again and if that didn’t work, come back to me. Their mother interjects, “That’s enough for God’s sake, I don’t want them getting into trouble.” The boys look at me and wink, sometimes force may have to be met with force.
* * *
19th October 2006 Fulham – Sands End
I’m driving very slowly in retaliation to the aggressive driver behind me. I try to let go of the anger that’s welling up inside of me so decide to take the first available turn to get out of his way. Instead of driving on though, he follows me. Unperturbed, I continue looking for a parking space while he continues to shout at me. I then see a space which won’t be any good for parking in, but I pull into it all the same. This is more of a gesture of, “OK if you want a fight come on then.” He pulls up beside me and blocks me in.
I get out of the car and watch him take a long spirit level from his back seat. I feel no fear, I’m calm, almost too calm. I’m thinking that I might be able to take him, and if he swings the spirit level at me, I’ll try to either block, ride or take the blow and then, if I get close enough, I’ll kick him with my artificial leg across his knee or shin. As he approaches me, he sees my arms and stands still, and then in a genuinely apologetic tone says, “Sorry mate.”
I reply, slightly indignantly, “I was just trying to find somewhere to park”.
“Yeah sorry, yeah you were trying to park, sorry” He places his hand affectionately on my shoulder, says sorry once again and then walks away.
Perhaps for him, it was a relief to find a way out and to show a better side of his nature, and for me too, as calm, and as unshakable as I was, I preferred the realisation that we were both real humans after all, not some violence crazed characters from a Tarantino film fantasy.
* * *
Roundshaw 1972
Roundshaw, the word means ring of trees, was a housing estate ten miles south of Central London, built on top of part of what had been the original Croydon Airport.
London is based in the centre of a naturally formed geological basin which the River Thames flows through. For those travelling to London from the south, the sight of the city as they came over the rim of the basin, even hundreds of years ago, was almost the same view I could see as I stood outside our new flat for the first time. In the hazy distance, I could see St Paul’s Cathedral glinting in the sun.
When I first visited our flat on Roundshaw the sun shone bright on the white concrete walls, and given anything would have looked good in that light, I was taken. Roundshaw was a meeting of the past and future – the old airport, its runways all around us, and these new modern homes. It offered me an escape from care and a dream come true in which I could finally live with Mum full-time.
During this visit, my friend Peter and his mother Judith came along too. However, Peter and I wandered off and managed to get lost within a few minutes. There were tower blocks, concrete decks, patches of grass, walkways and stairs, and to the untrained eye, they all looked the same. In desperation, we called for our mothers who heard our cries and called back.
Roundshaw symbolically welcomed me to a world where I would come to lose myself and no matter how much I cried for help, there’d be no way back.
* * *
Dream 20th December 2005
I’m standing in my neighbour’s garden on Roundshaw. In real life, the neighbour who was called Bill, died a long time ago, but his second wife continued living in his flat for many years after so I would visit her once every couple of years, and every time I did, the place always looked exactly as it had done in 1972. Yellow flowery wallpaper, brown smoked glass tableware and a glass-topped table.
In the dream though things were slightly different. Scattered across the garden, which was now slightly overgrown, were items from Bill’s life, including a box full of board games. I decided that if these things were going to be thrown away, I should take some for myself, but as I did, three men passed by and began to look through the debris too. As I watched them, I found a photograph of Bill when he was young. I told the men how I used to sit on his shoulders and stroke his hair and as I relayed this to them, one of them started to cry and that made me cry too.
I then walked into his flat where a woman startled me. I tell her she reminds me of Bill’s first wife, and she laughs at my lack of diplomacy because she is young and his wife was old. I look at the debris again and realise that what looked like rubbish was actually valuable after all.
* * *
1972 – June – Visiting Roundshaw Junior School
I am standing in front of a class of children. The headmaster, who’s next to me, says, “This is Simon and he shall be joining us next term”, I feel like hundreds of faces are staring at me. A couple of the girls let out exasperations of pity.
* * *
1972 – Roundshaw – September
My next visit to Roundshaw, the one where Peter and I got lost, took place a couple of months later. Mum was already moving in by then. These first visits occurred on sunny summer days, but by the time I moved in it was September and the days were already getting darker.
As I couldn’t walk far, and Roundshaw was a sprawling mass of concrete decks, Mum bought me a bike to help me get around. The decks were made of large slabs of concrete, most were about ten metres wide and some hundreds of metres long, and nearly all of them were positioned above parking garages or roadways. To the edge of each deck would be doorways to apartments and next to them a cupboard where people could put their rubbish. Opposite the doorways would be a wall and beyond that, a twenty-foot drop. At each end or regular intervals, stairs and ramps would take the inhabitants from terra-firma to terror firmer!
Powel Close
* * *
Roundshaw had already gained notoriety among the local surrounding community, where if you were from Roundshaw you were seen as, at best common, but, more likely dangerous too. Given the estate had recently featured on the national news because milkmen refused to service the area for fear of being robbed, their concerns were probably justified.
I was completely unaware of Roundshaw’s dark side at first. Instead, I smelt the newness of the paint, got dazzled by the sunlight on the lino throughout the flat, and bathed in the joy of finally being able to live with Mum at last in our own home.
The smooth surfaced decks particularly lent themselves to being cycled on, so, for my first few ventures alone I rode in front of our doorway and due to our deck being a thoroughfare to the shops, it didn’t take long for the little boy with short arms to become known all over.
As I peddled up and down, mothers pushing their children, stray dogs and other children passed me too. Within the first hours of playing outside a gang of children passed and taunted me for having stabilisers on my bike. So, I got off it and tried to detach the stabilisers, which were bolted on.
A few doors down from our place I saw an old man looking at me.
“Excuse me mister but can you help me take these off please?”
He came over, crouched down and told me that he would if my mother said it was ok. I told him I’d ask her when she got in, so he nodded and went back inside. As far as I was concerned this was an emergency and I wasn’t prepared to wait, so, as soon as he was gone, I went at the bolts with my teeth.
Years later the old man, Bill, the one in the dream about debris in his garden, told me he’d watched me from his window in disbelief. The stabilisers were off within minutes, and I would no longer be persecuted for not being able to ride a bike properly, but instead, it would be because of my arms.
Five Powel Close
Powel Close
* * *
2001
When I was thirty-two I was cycling along a road in Fulham when I heard some loud laughter. As I looked across, I saw three teenagers pointing and laughing at me. I did a U-turn and pulled up next to them. They looked on, still laughing, so, I said, “I shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of behaviour when I go out, should I?”
I looked at one of them who was tall, stocky, and mixed race and said to him, “How would you like it if someone called you a nigger?”
He shouted, “Are you calling me a nigger?”
I calmly said, “No, I’m just pointing out that you wouldn’t like it if someone called you a nigger.”
“Right,” he said, “I’m going to teach you a lesson.”
He threw off his jacket and shouted, “I’m gonna knock your lights out.”
I felt very relaxed and looked at him.
“The moment you touch me will be the last time you’ll be free to live in Fulham, I’ll make sure you’re beaten up every day until you can no longer bear to stay here. I know you live in Sherbrooke Road.” This technique of “psyching someone out” was one of the first things I’d learned on Roundshaw.
He seemed a bit disturbed, especially as I knew where he lived, so he picked up his jacket and walked off cursing me. I cycled home, but when I got in my rage started to pump through me. I told my partner at the time, what had happened, and she said she’d come out with me to find him. So, we got in the car and drove around the streets until we saw him. I pulled up and leant out the window. “See this car,” I shouted, “this will be the last thing you see if I feel like getting you, you should be careful who you threaten you fuckin’ cunt.”
A couple of days later I saw him standing in my street looking up at my house. I went to my kitchen put on an arm band, slid a knife up it and walked downstairs. Faced with someone threatening me or my loved ones I wouldn’t hesitate to push a knife through their face or chest and move it around to make sure they could no longer function.
Somewhere in the dark garages and sparkling decks of Roundshaw, I learned that being ruthless was the best way to deal with threats. Sometimes, though, I would find myself hurting someone in a fight, they’d be screaming out in agony, and I’d feel sorry for them and want to stop. I knew I had to teach them a lesson, but a part of me hated this world of violence.
When I opened the door, he was gone. I had my arm pulled towards my back to hide the long blade. If he’d confronted me both our lives may have taken a very different direction and deep down, I knew it wasn’t worth it.
Later that evening, I thought it best to find a different resolution so visited a friend who I thought might know him. He said he did, and he’d have a word. A few weeks later I was driving down Sherbrooke Road when a person on a bike pulled out in front of me. I slammed my brakes on and as I came to an emergency stop, I realised it was the same guy. We looked at each other and I gave him a, “See I told you,” smile. He almost smiled back.
A few weeks later I heard he’d been put in prison for punching a policewoman in the stomach. Somewhere, he had his own story to tell, but I didn’t like the way he wanted to tell it, so I didn’t want to hear it.
When I was forty-one, nine years after this all happened, one of the girls from the group who’d initially laughed at me, served me in a chemist. I wondered if she remembered the incident. Maybe she was thinking the same thing. A few days after that, I saw her walking an old lady home and as I passed by, I heard her tell the old lady that “it was nothing at all.”
* * *
Outside of not wanting to be psychologically attached forevermore to this guy, being imprisoned, or possibly losing my soul, the thought of killing him wasn’t too unappealing. Although, I might have felt differently in reality.
* * *
1972 – Roundshaw
My murderous violent temper was already bad before I got to Roundshaw, but once there it was honed to a far greater degree.
* * *
My First Fight on Roundshaw
I cycled down a ramp from our deck to a grassy area. In front of me was a group of children who started laughing and calling out, “Oi! You! Where are your arms? Hey, where’s your arms?”
I had just moved from a provincial village and the worst swear word I knew was, “bastard”. So, with as much vehemence as I could summon, I told them I thought they were, “Bloody bastards”. They laughed at me and started to imitate my middle-class accent and shout out, “No arms” over and over again.
I cycled over to them, got off my bike and started to chase them. They got out of the way, then formed a circle around me and started to taunt me further. As I’d run at any one of them, they’d move out of my way, swarm-like, so in frustration, I started to cry.
One of the boys yelled, “Oh poor little crybaby”. I looked at him and spat in his face. Fortunately, for me, my saliva landed in his eyes. He put his hands up, slightly blinded and leant forwards. I ran at him and kicked him in the head as hard as I could with my built-up medical boot. There was a clonking sound, he fell backwards, rolled in a ball and clutched his head. A few seconds later he got up, tears streaming, screaming in pain, and shouted, “I’ll get my mum onto you.”
The other kids stopped taunting me and stood in silence as he ran into one of the doorways. A few seconds later a well-built blonde woman came out dragging him by the arm. When she saw what had happened, she smacked him around the head and told the other kids they should be ashamed of themselves. She knelt down, wiped the tears from my face and invited me into her house to get cleaned up. I went in and was introduced to her Turkish husband and three other children. After a short while I was playing with them all and through them was introduced to the other children from the block.
What I learned that day was having an aptitude for violence not only stopped the taunting but also earned respect and friendship from the kids on Roundshaw.
* * *
1972 – Roundshaw
When I went into my victim’s house, I entered not only a foreigner’s home but also an environment which was foreign to me. It was a family home. A mother and father who seemed to love each other, 4 children, two girls and two boys, and a myriad of pets, all living together within this small council house. To add to the strangeness of the scene, the whole place had been decorated in a Turkish style.
The youngest daughter, Sema, wanted to show me her cat’s new litter of kittens and asked if I wanted one. When I got in that evening, I asked Mum if we could have one, but she said no. The next day Sema turned up at our front door with one of the kittens in her pocket. She went up to my mother and said she had something to show her. Her hand came out of her pocket with a tiny black kitten curled up in her palm. My mum let out a sigh of resigned debilitation and from their family home, I was given an opportunity to experience the joy of a pet. That night, I named the little black kitten Ginny after a cat mentioned in a book that had been read to me in care.
* * *
1972 – First Day at Roundshaw Juniors
My first day at school was marred by two main events that related directly to my disability. Both involved my clothing. The first one was caused by the occupational therapists at Roehampton Hospital cutting a hole in the groin of my trousers so I could get my penis to poke out through it when I needed to go for a pee. The problem was, as with most penises, mine seemed to have a mind of its own and decided to pop out during my first hour of class. Not able to get it back in myself I walked up to the teacher and asked her to do it for me. She got quite flustered and told me to go away and not to be so silly. I don’t remember how the issue was solved but I did feel humiliated in front of my whole class, especially as some of them were making gestures of exasperation or disgust.
The other incident involved playing football. We were told to put on our football gear, so, I went into the changing room full of pride that I had a Chelsea kit and couldn’t wait to get out there with the rest of them. The problem was, I took so long trying to get my boots tied up that the class was over before I was even changed. Possibly this event turned me against football for the rest of my life and consequently, by not being interested in the world of football, I also segregated myself from an important part of male culture. From then on, I’d sit out of break time footie matches and chat to the girls sitting on the sidelines. While the boys in my class developed skills in kicking a ball around, I learned how to talk with girls and most of the time, it didn’t involve football.
One of the girls I’d talk with was called Jackie, she took a shine to me which somehow ended up with her being my girlfriend for a few days. She even came to my home one day where Mum and Michael created an elaborate tea ceremony. Possibly my proposal of marriage and a further offer of fathering copious amounts of children gave her the wrong impression, so, when we arrived at school a few days later she told me I wasn’t her boyfriend anymore. My reaction was to kick her hand, maybe it was symbolic, as in wanting to damage something that she had that I didn’t. Her hand or her heart possibly, but when I was later informed I’d broken her finger, I felt the condemning gaze of my peers fall upon me. Even now, the shame of physically hurting a girl fifty years ago, still gnaws at the heart of me.
* * *
2006 – Perfect Stranger
There’s a new guy who just started at my work. One of my friends who’d come into my office today told me she thought he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Even in his wheelchair, he sits almost as high as I do standing. I told Kate about this good-looking man, and she laughed, “So, what’s wrong with him then? There’s got to be something.” As they say, nobody’s perfect, not even a perfect stranger.
* * *
2006 – Dream – Starbucks the Eighth Wonder of the World
I’ve just had a dream about Boris in which he has had to move out of where he lives. We’re talking on the phone. I try to guide him to where I’m waiting with a few other people.
“Where are you?” he asks.
I explain that he’ll “Have to walk to the end of the high street, then go up a hill, and there’s that building with the dome, do you remember it?”
In real life, this building would be the eighth wonder of the world but in my dream, it’s the roof of a Starbucks coffee house.
As soon as I wake up, I wonder if Boris has just died. I’m feeling guilty because I haven’t seen him for a few days. I shall ring him shortly just to check he’s still with us. I do so, and he is.
During the call, I tell him I’ve just been accepted as a member of The Chelsea Arts Club, a prestigious London club that’s renowned for being hard to become a member of. He’s not impressed at all. There’s no pleasing some parents.
* * *
1972 – Roundshaw – Michael
A few weeks after moving in with Mum and Michael, I tried to open their bedroom door, but it was locked. When I knocked and called out, I was told to go away. A day or so later, I came home and found Michael was in too. He was pointing an air pistol at a photograph of a woman, his ex-wife, Sue. He pulled the trigger and where her face had been a hole appeared. He reloaded and took another shot.
Michael had been a soldier and was now a photographer. He’d been brought up in Yorkshire within a strict family, joined the army as part of the medical corps and after leaving he became a nurse. He then suffered a brain haemorrhage which resulted in him having surgery. As a result, the scar tissue on his brain caused him to have blackout-type fits and unbeknown to us at the time, extremely violent, psychotic episodes. Perhaps the fact that he had been stopped from seeing his daughter by his wife should have been a big red flag.
For someone from a strict family, the behaviour of a precocious child, erm that’s me I’m talking about, (I know, it’s hard to believe), was particularly riling for Michael.
* * *
1972 – Michael’s Temper
Michael has me pinned to the floor; his hands are around my throat.
“And if you ever tell your mother I’ll kill her in front of you and then I’ll kill you. Do you understand?” Michael then turned me over and smacked his hand across my backside.
This all started when he confronted me about going out to play with my friends. A bit earlier I’d crept down the stairs, I knew Michael was to be avoided, so, I opened the front door and almost walked off, but still in my pyjamas, I knew I couldn’t. I decided to close the door quietly, walked back up the stairs and went back into my room.
Mum had gone to work, and Michael was sleeping on the couch in the front room because after months of bullying us, Mum had finally managed to get him out of the bedroom, but not the flat.
* * *
The first time I’d witnessed Michael’s temper occurred one Saturday morning as I sat on my bed playing. I heard raised voices and then a yelp from my mother. I picked up my milkshake and walked to the doorway. Michael was shouting at Mum about using his towels which, he claimed she had made damp when she knew she wasn’t allowed to touch them. I heard a thud and Mum crying then the bathroom door opened.
Michael faced me and said, “What are you looking at?” I was frozen to the spot, but I still wanted to see if Mum was okay. He stepped towards me, picked me up and threw me across the room. I landed against the bed which partly cushioned the fall but still winded me, while the milkshake went everywhere. Once I could breathe, I wanted to cry but Mum walked in, and in silence, with tears streaming down her face, hugged me and cleaned up the mess. A few days later I came home from school and found Michael decorating the lounge. This would become a familiar pattern over the next year.
The second incident involved Michael grabbing me by my arm and throwing me under the table. This happened in front of Peter, the friend I’d got lost with months earlier. Michael had been watching an orchestra performing on the TV while Peter and I imitated the conductor which made us laugh hysterically. Michael told me to stop being stupid, I continued, and within seconds was flung to the floor. I continued to laugh but I wanted to scream out for help.
When Michael went for Mum the next time, I shouted out that I would tell sister Mears from Roehampton Hospital about him if he continued hurting us.
* * *
1972 – Michael – A Step Too Far
So, after getting past Michael and then returning to my bedroom in my pyjamas, I heard Michael call me. I walked to the landing. “Did you go outside earlier?” he asked.
“No,” I replied.
“Don’t lie, I know you did because you left the door open”.
I clearly remembered shutting the door but perhaps in my efforts to be as silent as possible, I hadn’t let the catch of the lock click into place correctly.
“Right, I’m going to teach you a lesson,” he said as he grabbed me, his hand around my throat. “So, you’re going to tell Sister whatever her name is about me, are you?” He spun me over and his hand came down hard on my bottom. “Well let me tell you that if you ever do, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.” Another smack hit me. He spun me around again, placed his hands around maybe throat and squeezed. “And if you ever tell your mother I will kill her in front of you and then I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
I was crying in shock but managed to summon a yes.
“Now get out of my sight, go on, go out and play with your friends if you want, I don’t want to see you.” As I walked away, he kicked me up the backside, so I slid and fell over at the top of the stairs. Still, in my pyjamas, I got out of the house as quickly as I could, and as I shut the door behind me, I saw a group of friends talking nearby. I walked up to them, wanting to tell them what had just happened but instead, all I could do was burst out crying. They looked at me, completely confounded. It was then I realised there could be even greater levels of loneliness than those I’d experienced in care.
A bit later Michael called me in and fed me.
* * *
One night soon after the first attack I was allowed to stay up to watch a film called Mutiny on The Bounty. The story follows a mutiny against an overly harsh ship’s captain and his subsequent return and persecution of his mainly innocent crew.
That night I experienced what is known as a night terror. This is like a nightmare but includes sleepwalking as well as a certain amount of consciousness. Even now, 32 years later, I clearly recall having to find my mother to tell her the ship we were on was going to sink and she must get off as soon as possible. She told me I was dreaming so I pleaded with her to wake me up. She continued to speak to me and then got me into bed where I soon went back to sleep.
A few nights later I had a similar nightmare, but this time it was about a train that was just about to crash. “Please mummy you’ve got to get off,” I begged.
If Michael had banned me from telling Mum directly then my subconscious tried a different tack, only it was far too subtle for anyone to understand. Mum didn’t kick Michael out, maybe she would have had she been aware of his violent abuse of me but it’s also possible she’d have been too scared to do anything anyway.
Almost a year passed when, to our delight, we came home, and he had gone. The relief stayed with us for months, but about six months later there was a loud knock on the door and when I looked down the stairs through the glass door, I recognised Michael’s form and told Mum it was him. She uttered, “No” in disbelief, but still answered the door. I went to bed and the next day he was there, back on the couch sleeping.
That evening I went to the Roundshaw community centre and watched people doing karate in the main hall. I stood in front of them and copied what they did. I had seen the TV series Kung Fu and dreamt of being able to defend Mum and me from Michael’s attacks. Well, actually, I dreamt of killing him.
* * *
1972 – War and Love
There must have been a volcano that had erupted somewhere in the world around this time because beautiful sunsets seemed to be all the rage. From the exact spot where I cried in front of my friends, you could see St Paul’s glimmer in the distance, and as summer frayed into autumn and the nights drew in cold around us, our adventures on the old runways of Croydon Airport became, as Peter Gabriel put it, games without frontiers.
The domain of kids, especially those brought up on a council estate, lacks limitations when it comes to inhibitions. That can be a good thing, especially when it comes to making new acquaintances. For instance, asking a stranger of a similar age, if they want to play with you is perfectly acceptable when you’re a child, but when it came to playing war games, it was a whole different story.
The war games we played were far more war than play. Firstly, there were real trenches with sheets of metal laid over the top to form tunnels. Secondly, real artillery was fired across the battleground in the shape of stones, firework rockets, bangers and/or any other fireworks that could be stolen from the local shops, and thirdly hand-to-hand combat included quite extreme violence, again including various weapons. The pleas of one kid who I’d crept up on, and held a brick over, went unheard by me. This was war, so, I let the brick go and watched as he curled up in a ball crying.
There were also large old air-raid shelters which we’d dare each other to enter. They were pitch black inside and smelt of piss and dampness. I once fell over in one, landing knee-first on some barbed wire. Given how unsanitary they were I’m surprised I didn’t get gangrene.
* * *
After one evening’s exciting game of war, I returned home at around nine pm to find my mother hysterical with anger. She’d called the police, allegedly, and was not going to let me play out anymore. So, from then on, well at least for a while, I went directly from school to a babysitter called Lynnette.
Lynnette’s flat was dark, smoke-stained throughout and filled with the smell you get when you leave a gas cooker on too long. The flame was partly continuously lit to not only cook us the nightly beans on toast but to also keep the cigarettes she continuously had hanging from the corner of her mouth alight.
Lynnette’s husband Dan often sat in a chair in the kitchen dressed in his full Teddy Boy regalia, which even in 1972 was rather passé. Whenever they spoke to each other it’d be in the poetic form of resentful argumentative rhythms. I didn’t realise at the time, but this possibly had a lot to do with Lynnette recently revealing she was pregnant which, had Dan not had a vasectomy shortly after the birth of their previous child, may have been something to celebrate.
Mum might have got me out of the killing fields of Roundshaw, but now I was immersed in the deadly feuds of a struggling marriage. I didn’t like being there and I didn’t like Lynnette, who seemed to have me there merely to make money and I could tell her heart was not in the job, the home, or the marriage.
* * *
1972 – A Day in the Trenches
I wonder if the type of breakfast one chooses is partly influenced by genetics. My Gran nearly always cooked breakfast when I visited. Her day started in the kitchen because that’s where she’d get dressed in the warmth of the cooking range. Perhaps having a cooked breakfast was as much a choice related to stoking the oven in the morning as it was a need to eat.
For me, though, I don’t wake up feeling hungry but by lunchtime, I’ll often have an English breakfast. For my mother, however, breakfast was important when it came to starting the day. Cereal was the mainstay, while cooked breakfasts were for days when we weren’t in a rush. Throughout the winter though, it was a plate of porridge covered in sugar surrounded by a moat of cold milk that’d greet me.
The problem with porridge was, five minutes after leaving the house I’d find my bowels stirring with an unstoppable force that’d often result in returning home for an emergency poo, much to mum’s anger. The memory of the incident in the garden while wearing my new trousers probably meant she wasn’t prepared to take such risks anymore.
“Oh Simon, I’ve got to get to work. Why do you always want to go to the loo just when we have to leave.”
If I’d made the connection between porridge and an overwhelming need to have a bowel movement, I could have pointed the finger back at her, but I didn’t.
* * *
There’s a snugness about walking to school in the darkness of a winter morning, seeing a friend from school and trotting up to join them. This morning it was a boy with wavy auburn hair called Michael, there were a lot of Michaels around back in those days. I could have changed his name to make it easier for you, but I know how much you like a bit of gritty reality.
As we approached Roundshaw’s shopping centre I asked him, “Shall we go to the supermarket and see what toys they’ve got?” Within minutes we were in the shop, bleak and bright with its yellow strip lights, while the darkness of the winter morning sky still pushed against the window. The place was full of freezer cabinets but in the middle was a stand that displayed toys, records and other things.
What interested me this morning was a magnet set. We both sat on the floor and started playing with whatever we could get out of the boxes, meanwhile one of the cashiers kept a close eye on us. About a minute later, a man in a white uniform approached us and asked if we intended to buy something. Given we had no money it wasn’t likely. “We’re just looking,” I said, and as the man turned his back and huffed, Michael slipped a magnet set into one of my pockets.
We walked out slowly looking pissed off about our playtime being abruptly ended, while the man and woman nodded to each other while saying something disparaging about us. As we got close to the school, Sevin, the boy I’d kicked in the head, joined us and told us about a dead dog he’d just seen. It was still early, so, we went to have a look. The dog was a sandy-coloured mongrel who we’d often seen roaming the estate. By this point, we weren’t the only children gathered around and as we stared at the pool of blood that had dribbled from its mouth, and its long grey-purple tongue draped on the paving slab, someone in the crowd remarked how much it looked as if it was sleeping. The sun was rising and, in its light, we pretended our breath was smoke, and watched it rise like a ceremony for the dog’s soul. There was a strange silence which was broken a few seconds later by the sound of someone running towards us.
As the steps got closer, we turned and the boy, almost unable to speak for being out of breath, told us he’d just seen a woman commit suicide by jumping off Instone, the tallest building on the estate. Once he was able to speak more coherently, he informed us a man who’d seen what had happened told the congregation around the body that he’d come out to get his milk and said hello to his neighbour, but within a few seconds she’d climbed onto the balcony wall, looked across at him, and before he could say anything, let herself fall. After she hit the ground, she was still alive for a few minutes. Her body was motionless, but her eyes kept looking around and her mouth quivered a bit, and, “Then,” he said, “she became still.
As this story was relayed to us an RSPCA van pulled up to take the body – of the dog – away. If there’d been a policeman at the scene, he’d have said something like, “Come on, move on, there’s nothing to see here,” but there wasn’t. Still, once the body was taken, we continued our reluctant pilgrimage to school. When we got there, children were still playing outside in the low-cast sun and long-shadowed playground.
A few of the kids were taking running jumps onto iced-up logs so they could skate the length of them. I decided I wanted to have a go too, but as I tried, a boy from the year ahead, Mark, pushed me off. I decided to run at him, a bit startled, he tried to put his arm around my neck. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t quite get the position he hoped for, and I bit his arm as hard as I could. The more he tried to shake me off the deeper my teeth went in. I was screaming in temper, well as much as you can with an arm in your mouth, while he was screaming in agony. Mrs Gee, one of the teachers screamed from a window for us to stop fighting, but by the time she got to us, blood was trickling down Mark’s forearm and we were both crying. His tears were as much a result of the shock of me managing to bite through his Parker coat sleeve as they were the pain he was feeling. Whereas mine had somewhat abated when I saw the damage I’d done and couldn’t help but take a little comfort from it.
Mrs Gee managed to separate us but decided this was a matter for the headmaster to adjudicate. At first, recriminations between Mark and myself were met with calm commands to be silent but once we’d hushed ourselves, we awaited our fate.
“Wait outside.”
Mrs Digsall, Mrs Phillips, and Mrs Spall were the secretaries, playground attendants, and nurses amongst many other things, so after a few minutes Mrs Digsall came to clean us up, dress Mark’s wounds and reprimand us too.
The secretaries weren’t quite as frightening as the headmaster, but they came a very close second. When we finally re-entered the Head’s office, he asked us what had happened, lit his pipe, shook his head in disbelief then warned, he’d be watching us, and with that, we were sent back to our classes.
* * *
16th June 2006 – Chelsea Arts Club
This evening I took Kate to the Chelsea Arts Club for a meal. The set menu offered a starter of either tomato soup or crayfish. Thinking the latter would be something like a small dish of prawns in a mayonnaise sauce I went for it. Instead, the waiter bought us two plates with six little monsters on them that I wouldn’t want to see in a nature film let alone eat. I looked around me to see people on other tables happily dissecting and tucking into their large insect-like prey and came to realise that being brought up on an estate in South London didn’t necessarily mean you’d end up having a harder constitution than a middle-class person brought up in the quiet suburbs. I realised then it’s no wonder it’s the middle-class celebrities who tend to do so well when it comes to endurance-type programs such as, I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. One glamour model who ate jungle food such as worms, and kangaroo testicles in order to win her fellow contestants a good meal didn’t seem to hesitate as she bit into the innocent crustaceans. Had I known she was just licking the tip of the iceberg when it comes to disgusting delicacies in middle-class circles, I might have held back on giving her so much credit.
* * *
1973 – Don’t Cry Over Spilt
One evening Mum took me along with her to get a Chinese takeaway about a mile from home. As we waited for our food, I decided to do my then-normal routine of showing the owner some of the kicks I’d learned from watching the karate class. As I did, they’d get their relatives from out of the kitchen and ask me to show them my, “feet of fury” in action.
Feeling buoyed by the adulation at the takeaway we marched from the garage below our flat where Mum had parked, when the bag holding the food gave way. Mum and I stood almost crying over the spilt meal. But you know what Confucius says about spilt Chop Suey.
* * *
1973
Sean was one of the hard kids from the year above me. I was beginning to recognise there were those at school who wanted to fight and those who preferred to remain quiet, and by doing so managed to avoid getting into ruts with others. Sean thought he was a fighter and he wanted everyone to know it.
One day, on the way to Lynnette’s after school, I decided to pop into the community centre where there was a lounge and snack shop. Lots of the other kids from school hung out there, so I thought I’d join them. Within minutes of arriving, Sean said something derogatory to me which I retaliated to, and within seconds he was sitting on my chest, trying to punch me in the face, but every time his fist came down, I put my arms in the way. By this point, I was in full-blown temper mode, with tears of anger streaming down my face, but still, I didn’t take my eyes off him. As he raised his arm high above his head and looked for an opening to strike me, I brought my foot almost up to my head and then crashed my heel into his eye. He clasped his face, screamed and within a second was no longer on top of me but writhing around in agony.
The crowd around me looked on in disbelief. Not only was the victor younger and smaller than Sean but he had short arms. That was the moment when a consensus amongst my peers started to develop. It wasn’t so much I was tough, but more a case of being more dangerous than I looked.
* * *
2006 – Strange Fruit
Tonight, Steve, the friend I mentioned in the very first paragraph of this book, and I pulled up in my car outside his home. Just as we came to a halt, I heard a cracking sound and then felt a splat of something hit me. At first, I thought it was a gunshot, then I realised it was a bird in the tree above us that had been startled and in retaliation, shit upon us. As I drove off, I started to feel as if I was dreaming. The music didn’t seem to sound right, my mobile phone kept lighting up and I felt very uneasy. Just as in one of those films where the twist at the end reveals the main character is dying, and suddenly realises the reality they’ve experienced throughout the film had been made up by their dying brain. I too wondered if the crack I’d heard was a gunshot and everything I perceived after that was my brain offering me a softer touchdown to the afterlife. Fortunately, it was just one of those strange thoughts, and I didn’t die then. Unless of course, the near-death experience was real and is lasting a few years.
* * *
1973
As I stood looking at the dead dog, I didn’t realise Roundshaw was encircling me, creating a new reality inside me. One that created new values, while the old, “me,” was laid out to die. My fall onto the concrete decks of Roundshaw had paralysed me too. Life on the estate came at a cost that meant you weren’t allowed to live fully. Just like in the film The Matrix, people are farmed in order to power the system which in turn offers a pretence of living as a kind of payment, even though it’s never openly revealed. Likewise, council estates are a way of keeping a resource (human beings) available for whenever the system should need it. Such as a war, or a potential workforce.
* * *
1973/4 – Andrew
Children with heart defects were kept in during lunch breaks or games at our school. Most kids with anything “wrong” with them tended to be wrapped in cotton wool whether they needed to be or not. The a + b = d lack of thought process that leads to disabled kids being seen as delicate is the start of the perception that disabled people must be judged with a different yardstick. The consequence of that though leads to more serious issues later on, most of which result in a lack of equal opportunities for disabled people. But I’ll come back to that another time.
Andrew Wilson was a thin, almost white-haired, and slightly blue-lipped boy who played in the library during games and lunch breaks because he had a hole in his heart. Perhaps because my classmates were playing a lot of football at the time, I decided to play with my Action Men in the library with Andrew too. Throughout the winter and even in the summer months Andrew and I would often sit at a table in the library and play together. The library also acted as a corridor from the secretary and headmaster’s offices to the gym/assembly/dining hall, so we started to become friendly with the staff too.
The headmaster, Mr Garriock, was tall, wore glasses, had white hair and smoked a pipe. He exuded quiet authority, rarely shouted, read stories to us all every morning during assembly and inspired a desire in the kids, well me at least, to impress him.
At the school disco, we played a game where he would stop the record playing, by the way, he was the DJ, and over the microphone gave us an instruction to do something like lie on the floor or raise an arm in the air. The last person to do the action had to sit out. Eventually, only a few of us remained on the dance floor. When he asked us to stand on our left foot, I put my right foot on my left whilst my competitors balanced on one leg. I could see him look at me and wonder what I was up to, and once he saw my response told the rest to sit down. For once in my life, I won something. I don’t remember the prize but his desire to train me to pass the eleven-plus grammar school entrance exam may have been borne of this incident.
If Mr Garriock was a kindly man, he was protected by his hench-women, Mrs Digsall, Mrs Phillips, and the smoulderingly good-looking Mrs Spall. These three sat at the main entrance to the administrative area like the three-headed dog of Hades. Everyone, even the caretaker feared them. Andrew and I had a lot of contact with them and possibly because we looked a little vulnerable and sweet, we were taken under their wing. Even the Mafia couldn’t have provided better protection.
* * *
2005 – The First Question
The issue of how I manage to go to the loo is often brought up by strangers on our first acquaintance. Nowadays I tend to quip back that if they hang around, they’ll get to see for themselves. The question of how I masturbate often also comes hand in hand with the loo question too. That query will normally get the “where there’s a willy, there’s a way” joke, or “I use my mouth”, or I admit I do have a problem reaching, then reach up above my head.
* * *
1973 – Pee Time
Walking back from school one sunny early summer afternoon I found I was desperate to have a pee. I found a quiet spot in the garages but couldn’t undo my trousers. I decided to go to one of my fellow schoolmate’s places as he lived very close by. Richie was one of the few black kids who lived on the estate, so, I knocked on his door and his father answered. I explained to him I needed help going to the loo and I was desperate. He looked at me and started to shout at me, telling me to go away. I walked off, at first slightly distracted by the shock of what had just happened, but realised this reprieve gave me enough time to make my way to Lynnette’s. The problem was, as I got closer the feeling of desperation increased exponentially, so by the time I got there I’d reached “legs crossed” mode.
I knocked on the door but there was no answer. I knocked again and then a few more times. She still didn’t answer. I started to cry then a minute or so later her door opened. We looked at each other. I told her I was desperate for the loo but as I uncrossed my legs, the warm pee poured out and down them, possibly spurred on by my anger at her not answering the door quickly enough. Although to be fair, gravity was more likely the greater force.
At first, the feeling of relief outweighed the fear of the repercussions, and possibly the look of fear on my face touched Lynnette’s conscience. Instead of telling me off, she told me not to worry and beckoned me toward her. The Vikings had a saying about such moments. It goes something like, “He who pisses in his shoes will not have warm feet for long.”
* * *
As I got older my arms grew longer in proportion to my upper body so by about nine years old, I could reach my penis and trousers. Until that time, I was reliant on help. At eight years old, it wasn’t an issue that worried me too much. So, in answer to any queries regarding pissing and wanking, I can reach, but thanks for your concern regarding such matters.
* * *
1973 – Roundshaw – Thursday Special
One of my teachers once told me the US had been built on a society that was polarised between criminals and religious fundamentalists from the outset.
As we, the criminal kids from Roundshaw fought our way through life, religious people from the outside world wanted to save us. As we’d play in the park a group of young adults sat in the sun playing guitars and singing. In time we’d ride up to see what was going on. They’d invite us to join them and at first, we’d ride off thinking they were a bit weird but after a few weeks, we became so acclimatised to them that we joined in singing with them. We’d meet them every Thursday and listen to their stories, sing along, pray and never question if God was real or not. This club was called Thursday Special and was run by the local Pentecostal Church.
How they managed to get us into their Church I don’t know, they probably used the cold and ever-darkening evenings as an excuse, but for at least a year and a half, many of us regularly went to Church even if the next day we’d be involved in stealing, fighting or swearing. When Elvis sang about lying, cheating, and stepping on people’s feet, but how he was now saved, he also sang to us the story of our theological path to God.
* * *
2006
Last night I watched a film in which the central character, Borat, finds himself in a Pentecostal church. From the outside, the speaking in tongues, the laying on of hands, the writhing on the ground and running around uncontrollably, looks extremely disturbing and comical. But when we were kids, we didn’t see that sort of behaviour, instead, there was a slower propaganda machine working upon us. It wasn’t particularly malicious. The criticism I’d level at it was the same as I would of nearly all political or religious groups -that the only truth important to them is that which supports their point of view -. Even so, for them, we were to be saved. Not by the truth, but by hook or by crook.
* * *
1973 – Religious Camp
And so it was with our Thursday Special sessions. We would sit in the park, and sing songs, such as “Give Me Oil In My Lamp” and “When The Saints Go Marching In” and they would tell us stories from the Bible. They would test our faith by asking us to fall backwards so that they could catch us although most of us would take a quick peep over our shoulder to check they were there. They would tell us about having dark hearts, and temptations but, if we loved God and Jesus and were good to others, as we would have them be good to us, then we would be welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven when we died. And a giant Jesus in the clouds would have a place at his right hand, even if there was a lack of love in our lives. That God and Jesus would always be there, in reserve, for us.
During the summer months, the church would take us to a camp in Bonsall, a small village near Matlock in Derbyshire. This is where we’d be further inducted into the way of Christ. Just before we got on the coach that would deliver us from evil, my mum told me to make sure I looked after the new clothes she’d just bought me. I kissed her goodbye and with God’s speed, we were on our way on the 150-mile-long journey. When we finally arrived in a field with some wigwam-type tents with no covers on the ground and a few log cabin huts on the edge of the field, we were slightly disturbed and possibly subconsciously transposed this to what might be in store for us when we arrived at Heaven’s or Hell’s gates. When it came to working out which we were now in though, we weren’t sure.
After a quick introduction to those in charge, we were shown to our tents which were green with green canvas camp beds, and told to get our stuff ready, have a wash and then go to the tabernacle, which was a large marquee in which we were to meet everyone else. Soon after entering, we were asked to pray and then the main pastor introduced himself, his wife and daughter, Caroline. Immediately, one of the older boys from our group, I’m pretty sure it was a kid called Terry, shouted out “Yeah Caz the spaz”. There was a moment’s pause and the pastor continued. No doubt everyone had been informed that we were a rough lot and our conversion into good folk was a priority.
To help in this matter we were split into several groups, and we were informed the group with the most points would earn a prize, most probably a Bible, at the end of the week. Points could be earned by doing chores and deducted for misbehaviour and swearing. If you’ve ever watched South Park, the cartoon series, and seen how often they swear, then you’ll have an idea of the colour and quantity of our, the Roundshaw kids, language.
Terry had come to the camp with his two younger brothers Andrew and Michael. Michael was in my class at school and was known on the estate as being from a hard family. Within the first two days, I’d had fights with all three of them. Unfortunately, when I went for the older of the three, I ran along the top of a couple of bunk beds in one of the dormitories fully intent on kicking him in the head. As I got closer, he gave me a bit of a concerned look and just as I went to deliver my attack, I ran straight into a beam and almost knocked myself out. I was dazed and laid out spread-eagled upon the bed, and as I started to cry, I heard them laughing. I was still in temper mode and started to shout out obscenities and threats at them when one of the staff came in and restrained me. He took me to a group of women sitting on the other side of the field and asked them to look after me for a while.
* * *
Each day we’d be taken on an outing, such as visiting caves or going for walks in beauty spots. For children such as us, there was a problem when it came to identifying what beauty was. Maybe it was our age but also our whole value system revolved around excitement and distraction. Beauty didn’t play much of a part in our lives. The caves were not particularly of any interest except that there was an inherent danger about caves and to be under such a threat gave us a sense of bravery.
A few days into the week we visited Matlock, the nearest big town. One of our activities involved going swimming. Just before swimming, we’d looked around the shops and I was mesmerised by a toyshop which had a model railway displayed in its window. I went in and immediately an underwater mask with a built-in snorkel caught my eye. I bought it and decided to try it out in the local swimming pool.
At first, I played around in the shallow area but soon decided to try it out in the deep end. I jumped in along with another boy I’d just met, but as soon as I hit the water I felt the mask, which was over my nose and mouth fill up with water. I quickly made my way to the side of the pool, but there was no bar along the edge to grab hold of, nor was there a drainage channel, so I tried to reach for the side of the pool and hoist myself up, but there was such a large gap between the water level and the edge I couldn’t pull myself out. My new “friend” looked on laughing, no doubt thinking I was clowning around, so realising I was on my own I tried to pull the mask off. By this time, I was beginning to breathe in the water and started to cough and splutter. It was then I felt myself relax, and looking down at the bottom of the pool, said to God “I didn’t think I was going to die this soon, but if that’s your will I’m ready.” I started to blank out, everything went fuzzy, my vision went speckly and just as I thought that was it, the lifeguard pulled me out and asked if I was alright.
The mask was off me, I coughed uncontrollably and cried a bit. I told her I was okay, and thanked her, then looked at my new “friend” in disgust even though he was now looking a bit more concerned. The lifeguard told me to go to the children’s pool, so I did. When I got there I dived in head first and bumped my head on the bottom of the pool. I let myself float to the surface, got out and rubbed my head better. After swimming, we were allowed to visit the fun fare, which was quite a small affair, but feeling ravenously hungry I decided to have some almost luminous green candy floss.
All went well until the next day when I thought I better show one of the people in charge my luminous green poo. All Hell broke loose. Firstly, I was moved to a dormitory and put in the care of the five girls sleeping in it. In turn, they thought I should be tucked up in bed which was where I spent the day under observation. Food was brought to me and concerned visitors came in now and again to see if I was okay. I failed to make the connection or tell anyone about the previous day’s green candy floss and that morning’s poo, so I was pretty concerned for myself too.
That evening the logistics of where I should sleep became an issue. I was given the choice to either sleep in a bed by myself or share a bed with one of the teenage girls. Just as I was unable to see nature’s beauty, I was also unable to feel sexual attraction and the thought of sleeping next to someone filled me with horror, especially at the thought of what would happen if I were to wet the bed. That hadn’t happened since the psychopath Michael lived with us, but still, it was a bit of a concern.
Before going to bed one of the older girls helped me get ready, but just at the point when I was completely naked, I jumped in the air, spun around, gyrated my hips, wiggled my penis up and down and shouted, “Tom Jones, Tom Jones”. The girls looked, gasped for a second or two, then shrieked and covered their eyes. The one helping me pulled me back towards her and admonished me and I laughed as she told me not to do it again.
The next morning over a breakfast of porridge, one of the three brothers taunted me about sleeping with the girls and to protect their honour, I thought it best to attempt to leap across the table to land a kick, punch or bite. One of the staff grabbed me and took me outside. He tried to tell me about another way, about turning the other cheek but it fell upon deaf ears. While speaking to me he helped me climb over a stone wall and walked me across a field. I felt my feet get wet and he showed me the dew on the grass and the fields around us and the world God had made for us. But when you live in a concrete jungle where those around you seem to come from Hell and make you feel like you’ve got to be on guard all the time, you can’t help but wonder if God might have forgotten all about you.
* * *
On the last day, we were called together to find out which team had done the best, not surprisingly we didn’t win, but when my name was called out to receive the prize for best boy camper of the week, I was more shocked than anyone. This was my first taste of being judged by a different yardstick because of my arms. My position now is I’d rather fail on an equal footing than succeed because I have a disability. This isn’t to appear more heroic, it’s simply because there is little pleasure in being praised for just being diligent. That’s like saying ten out of ten for trying but only one for succeeding. The noble failure is still a failure at the end of the day.
When I got home, I showed Mum the Bible, and she was very impressed but less impressed by the loss of most of my new clothes. They’d been left in the tent when I was transferred to the girls’ dormitory. In just one day I felt what it was like to reach the heady heights of success and the pain of falling from it.
* * *
End of Chapter 11
