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Waiting

1978 – Grease

During most of my stay in hospital recovering from the amputation, songs from the film Grease were being played regularly on the TV and radio. What seemed to be making the biggest impact were the clips from the film accompanying the songs. Music illustrated by images goes back a long way. A magic lantern projector had shown images to audiences while a song called The Lost Child played in theatres back in 1894. Later, during the 1930s, Screen Song films were produced where lyrics were animated so audiences could sing along to them, a bit like modern-day Karaoke. Disney cartoons and popular musicals were all further steps along the way to a winning formula that would soon be jumping from the cinema to the TV. From the Elvis, Bond, and Beatles films, to Bob Dylan’s Subterranean Homesick Blues clip to Bowie’s Ashes to Ashes video, The Monkees TV show, and then Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, the combination of images and music became a powerful tool for marketing both artists and their wares. In the 70s we were being groomed by the media moguls, and it worked. By the time they’d finished with me, I had the clothes, the haircut, the albums and the cinema tickets.

I went to see Grease in a cinema in Croydon, South London. I’d never seen an audience so involved in watching a film. There were people dressed up like the characters, dancing and fighting in the aisles, whilst many others acted out parts simultaneously with the actors. There were cheers and boos and rapturous applause, all of which created a sense of communion between us, and that was something that had been absent in many of our lives.

I wouldn’t experience anything like this again for another six years when I went to a cinema in Gibraltar where the kids, who probably felt constricted living on that small rock, were wild. There was dope being smoked openly, people dancing in the aisles, and things, including lit cigarettes, being thrown all over the place. It was pandemonium verging on a mass group ‘primal scream’ therapy session therapy session.

* * *

1985 – Hammersmith Odeon

Dire Straits, one of the biggest rock bands in the ‘80s, was performing at The Hammersmith Odeon which wasn’t far from where I lived then. I didn’t have a ticket, so, went there on the off chance of buying one from a ticket tout. I saw someone I knew selling some. She used to sell papers with her grandmother at Fulham Broadway Station and I’d often say hello to them both as I’d pass. She said she had some tickets for sale, so I bought one. When I got to the front of the queue I was taken aside and informed the ticket I had was a fake, so, I had to do the walk of shame past the long queue back outside. I hung around for a while looking for the woman, but she was long gone and from then on, unsurprisingly, I never saw her selling papers outside the station again.

Whilst hanging around, a young bloke came up to me and asked if I was trying to get in. When I said I was, he told me to wait near one of the doors at the side, which I did, along with about 20 other people. The doors opened an arm came out and beckoned us to enter quickly, so we did. Once inside he said, “OK, I want £20 each, once you go upstairs try to find an empty seat and if possible, go to the front of the stage, and if you get caught don’t grass us up.” So, we did as instructed, carefully infiltrating the audience. A few of us recognised each other through the night and gave knowing nods and smiles.

As the concert got going, a lot of people made their way to the front of the stage but because my legs couldn’t stand standing for long periods, I found a seat. There must have been a lot more infiltrators than the 20 I was with because both the seats and aisles were filled with people dancing during the fast numbers and swaying during the slow ones. At one point I was mesmerised by a man dancing near me. He repeatedly moved the weight from his front leg to his back one, while standing in a running position with one foot on one step and the other on a lower one. It was like watching one of those looping animations of someone running. Thirty- three years later that man is animated in my mind still and probably in yours too.

* * *

These worlds where people became more anarchistic tend to take place in the semi-dark, coloured light, hidden spaces of theatres and concert halls where ceremonies are performed, and our more primaeval selves enter and genuflect before exorcising their inner shadows and light.

* * *

1982 – Tunnel of Love

I am walking in the rain listening to Tunnel of Love by Dire Straits on headphones. I suddenly feel an emotional high because of the music. I hadn’t felt anything like it before, this was my first aesthetic experience.

* * *

1984 – Contemporary Art

I’m talking to a college technician called John.

I say, “Modern art is just a load of people pretending to see the emperor’s new clothes, it’s just pretentious bullshit”.

He looks a bit taken aback, “I wouldn’t say that, some of it has some substance.” He says.

I curl my lip a little and shrug, “Well, I can’t see it.”

A few days later I am in The Tate Gallery on Millbank in London. I walk into a medium-sized room with big, purple-coloured paintings on every wall. I sit down because my legs are aching and look at the paintings. I feel an overwhelming sensation coming from the depths. I feel connected with the artist. The paintings were Mark Rothko’s works and couldn’t have been more abstract.

* * *

2018 – Pop, Pop Music

When it came to music though it was another story. Through it, I could not only connect with some deeper aspects of myself but with others too. As I grew out of adolescence, I started to recognise how youths were manipulated for commercial gain and most of the music targeted at them was neither nurturing nor deep in any spiritual way. Instead, the whole process seemed to be aimed at training us to get hooked on cycles of materialism which in turn would lead us to be even more ardent adult consumers. People complain our environment is polluted with plastic, but so too are our psyches.

The pop world may help teenagers deal with the trials and tribulations of infatuation, breaking up, and a bit of politics, but it rarely deals with the deeper concerns that we may face in life. I too have been guilty of playing safe when it comes to writing songs, and that’s partly because in our society there are very clear limits to what’s acceptable within the pop/rock arenas. Maybe that’s partly why I write this too because I can cover a wider spectrum of subject matter.

* * *

2018 – Story Telling

I once heard an Amazon rainforest tribal storyteller relating a traditional tale. His story was filled with details I doubt we would generally find acceptable in our society. His audience consisted of all ages while his tale contained the intricacies of women’s genitalia, complicated emotions relating to incest and a few other taboo areas such as lust and faithfulness. These were subjects that were also included in the Greek Tragedies but are now almost forgotten beyond a Hollywood treatment of one of those tales now and again. Even our own traditional stories have been replaced with sanitised versions, and yet mental health issues, addictive behaviour and suicides are on the increase. And yes, I think there’s a connection between these taboo issues and our urge to deny a more honest portrayal of life, especially to adolescents. In later chapters, I’ll go into this in more detail, and trust me you’ll probably be shocked by what you read, especially when it comes to Snow White.

* * *

2018 – The Music of Tears

This evening, before writing this, I came across a video of a child, maybe around two years old, listening to Moonlight Sonata. As he listened, he was crying, seemingly as a reaction to the music, however, when it comes to kids, he could have been sad about not being allowed to bring his cuddly toy. You might be able to see it using this link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHUnLY1_PvM

* * *

1978 – Wilson’s School – Rob

There was a kid at school in the year above me; he was most notable for having a school blazer that looked black indoors, but in direct sunlight had a turquoise-green sheen to it, so, along with his copper-coloured hair, he stuck out. On top of all that he had an Elvis-style hair cut which meant I knew we had something important in common.

It’s hard to remember the weaving process that takes one from acquaintance to friend but in the latter months of 1978 this other Elvis fan, his name was Rob, and I started to spend a lot of time together.

His father, an ambulance driver, was a big bear of a man called Jim, had a lot of grey hair and a white beard, and his mum was round and friendly. There were three other kids and a big Old English Sheepdog called Blue, who all lived in a little cottage of a house around a green in a housing estate in Wallington. On the walls were prints of paintings including a crying child and a scantily clad woman with long black hair leaning against a tree. Images that I’d later think were naff but at the time found rather appealing.

In this dark, messy, overcrowded home was something I knew I didn’t have. The experience of a big bustling family. As an adult, Rob would work on submarines for months at a time. Maybe, having a childhood like this was the perfect training for such a job.

Rob’s family accepted me and included me in meals, and outings. In fact, his parents even told me off if I was being a bit out of line. One could see it as me playing the lost child, which probably had some truth to it, but at the same time, I was gravitating towards what I felt I needed.

* * *

1978 – Waiting

Even though I now only lived a few miles further away from Roundshaw, I started to visit friends there a lot less. This meant I spent a lot of time wandering around, calling on friends and meeting new people, especially in the parks. It was the beginning of learning to live with an often overwhelming sense of loneliness.

* * *

I don’t think we’d studied Waiting for Godot at school yet, but if we had, I’d have probably recognised the experience of the main characters as my own, especially while waiting for the 157 bus that would take me to school for the next five years. As with Godot, there was a cut-off point when, if the bus wasn’t coming, it would be worth walking about half a mile to where other buses were available too. I’m surprised I didn’t grow up to be a compulsive gambler given the amount of adrenalin rushing through me whilst I decided whether to walk to the next bus stop or not. If I did, I’d be continually looking over my shoulder in case there was an option to run back to the previous or on to the next stop if the bus appeared.

I wasn’t the only one, Sunil, who lived opposite the bus stop would often be there too as he went to another school near Wilson’s, so we shared the same routes and dilemmas. Not only was the bus stop a good place to make friends, but the bus itself became a bit of a social club as well. There’d often be the same people on it, so, we’d chat with them, and over time became friends, even to the extent of visiting their homes, whether they wanted it or not.

The accountant I have used to tell me how poor I am for three decades now. Well, I met him 37 years ago through a woman on the bus who was his girlfriend. He still charges me the normal rate though.

Aside from meeting at the bus stop, Sunil and I would go to each other’s homes too. He was from a family of Indian heritage and whilst his mum would react with sympathy about my arms, she would always be very welcoming. There were not many Indian people living in the area then and probably because of that, there was a lot more assimilation going on, especially with the younger generations.

I have advocated for a long time that the best education is integration, not only in terms of ethnic-related issues but also with disability ones too. It would be a few years before I’d start to become more politically aware but even so, experiences were going on in my life then that were stirring some kind of understanding, even if it was somewhat blurred.

Sunil and I would go to the local park which backed onto Westcroft Sports Centre. As we started to get to know other kids there, we’d use the sports centre to either go swimming in or just hang around the café with the other kids there.

Some of those we mixed with were a bit older than us, had either skinhead style haircuts or were dressed as Mods and made it clear they didn’t normally like Rockers, although on this occasion they’d make an exception for me, and Sunil, who also looked a bit like Elvis. Some of them carried weapons, dealt drugs and were prone to violence. These were definitely on course for a time in prison and I hated the way they’d punch unsuspecting kids and soon felt this was a world best avoided.

At one point one of them called a national newspaper and informed them there was a bomb in the sports centre, which resulted in everyone, including all the shivering swimmers, being evacuated. I wanted to belong to a network of friends, but I could tell they weren’t for me.

Some people believe that gangs act as an alternative to families for those who don’t have a good family life, but in many ways, there is no comparison. The world of gangs is scary and insecure, it lacks trust and magnifies feelings of detachment. Oh, okay then, on second thoughts, there is a bit of a link after all. Anyway, gangs tend to reproduce the feelings of an absent or highly dysfunctional family, so maybe it feels like home to those who come from broken homes, as it’s what they know. Still, while there may be honour amongst thieves, I doubt there’s much love.

* * *

1978 – Argy-Party

One of Rob’s friends invited us to a party that was to be held in a cricket pavilion in one of the big parks nearby. This friend’s dad offered to drive us all home at midnight, but when I asked Mum and John about it during our Sunday dinner, John said I’d have to be home by 11. When I pointed out it would be safer for me to be brought back at midnight in a car than to walk home alone through a park and along roads around the time the pubs closed, John insisted I be back by 11.

I am not sure if it was the hatred of being controlled or the sense of injustice that triggered me, but I lost my temper and kicked a chair. Instead of it going flying, it remained where it was, but the seat part went flying up into the air. John got up and went for me. My reaction was to kick him, which by chance caught him right between the legs. He dropped to the floor. I stood there whilst Mum shouted at me and a short while later John stood up, pushed me back onto the armchair, pulled my artificial foot off and slapped me around the head. I can remember thinking, “Erm, I didn’t kick you with the artificial foot, I think you’re being a bit unfair”, but I stayed quiet.

* * *

1978 – The Party – Watch This

The party in the park was probably the first adult one I’d gone to by myself. I tried drinking some beer but didn’t like it, so, I thought it would be funny to spit it out. I was talking to a big black guy on the upper balcony and said, “Watch this”. He was probably expecting something highly entertaining to happen, so might have been a bit disappointed when all I did was take a mouthful of beer and then whack my bloated cheeks with my arms to create a beautiful fountain of beer. He laughed, probably politely, thinking “Aww, he’s mental as well, poor guy.” Unfortunately, the guy below didn’t think it was funny and came rushing up shouting, “Who just spat beer all over me?” Before I was able to come up with a plausible excuse he punched and knocked out the guy I’d just been talking with. The beer-soaked guy went back downstairs, whilst I frantically apologised to the guy as he came around. He looked at me and said, “Don’t worry, I’ve been looking for an excuse to get him.” At which point he went downstairs and knocked the beer-soaked bloke unconscious.

When I got home at 11, as instructed, Mum asked if it had been a nice party.

“It was okay,” I said, “a few drunk people were being stupid though.”

I didn’t bother telling her there’d been a sober one too.

* * *

1978 – Allegiance and Betrayal

It was very rare that Mum’d exert any control over me, which must’ve wound John up. When I look back on it now, I feel a bit sorry for John because there was an allegiance between Mum and I against him at times. This would normally take the form of withholding information about things we’d know he’d disapprove of or agreeing not to do something to his face but doing it anyway. John probably reminded Mum of her own father, so, she tended to identify more with me than him, and consequently, he must have felt quite hurt and betrayed about that.

* * *

1978 – Hair Today

Sunil and I befriended a boy from an Irish family who lived down the road. I’d been mainly drawn in by him having an Elvis hairstyle. You can probably see a bit of a pattern emerging here. One weekend I went around his house and watched TV whilst one of his cousins, who was visiting from Ireland, got a bit drunk and told us about her sexual experiences. I was sure I might be in line to become one of those experiences if I hung around long enough, so, decided to stay the night. Nothing happened, and no I’m not going to make something up to keep you happy. The only thing I got was her putting a load of Brylcreem in my hair and giving me a proper rocker hairdo.

I knew Mum was going to be a bit surprised about my new look but when she opened the door, I wasn’t quite prepared for the wrath that came my way. Within two minutes my head was under the shower as she washed the oil out of my hair. Even Mum had her limits, and being a hairdresser, Brylcreem in my hair wasn’t so much a hair-do, but a hair-no-you-don’t.

* * *

1977 – Chess Club

Next to the main crossroads at the top of Wallington High Street, there was a big church. It’s now replaced by a supermarket, which just about sums up our culture. But back then, my only contact with it was to go to the chess club which met there every week. I had learned to play chess at about eight or nine years old and although I liked it, I wasn’t particularly good.

My memory of the venue is almost surreal now; it was as if we were in a large hall whose ceiling was so high it couldn’t be seen. The floor was made of long yellowing floorboards, the radiators were green, the members all wore sepia-coloured clothes, and the leader of the group had a large aged-yellow beard. A line of tables were perfectly centred through the length of the room, each with a chessboard, box of chess pieces and a clock placed on them.

I only ever played the old man with the beard once and I won. Maybe he was being kind, or possibly my little arms moving the pieces around and me writing down every move in a little chess notation pad distracted him. I wasn’t a strategist; I would just take as many pieces as I could and then try to overwhelm my opponent. Against a good chess player, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

The main highlight of the evenings was the break time when tea and biscuits were served, in the winter months, the hall was so cold the tea was more a heating aid than a beverage.

There were a few other kids there who I’d end up going outside into the dark car park with and having a chat. We’d often be joined by two other girls who weren’t from the chess club, they were from another world. Given the car park was a no man’s land it was safe to meet there, plus we’d bring them hot drinks to warm their hearts and hands, which as you’ll see later, came in use one dark day.

* * *

2018 – Borders

I was discussing with a friend recently who believed borders shouldn’t exist given we’re all one race with similar needs and rights. I couldn’t help but disagree. For me, there is a link between all humans, that bit is true, and most of us have similar core aspirations and desires, including having compassion for our fellow human beings. But I also recognise differences, differences that cause varying levels of allegiance towards different groups of people. The notion of seeing past these differences is a noble aspiration but it might also be a self-destructive one too. What would you choose, being right and virtuous or surviving? Sometimes you can’t have both.

For me, there are natural borders, especially around language, where differences can be perceived between not only speaking different languages but also varying vocabularies, and regional and class accents. This doesn’t mean I can’t feel someone very different from me is just as human as I am, but I can’t help but keep in mind our allegiances tend to be aligned with kinship, so, people are more likely to be kind to those with whom there’s more common ground. First in line are those that we love along with our close family and friends, then those we share our cultural values, ideological and religious beliefs with, possibly our local community, our region, or our country. Many also identify with others based on whether they look like each other. This tends to go hand in hand with genetic pools, which many see as “race”. Although race is probably not the best word to use. Still, even those who say there’s no scientific basis for the term are quick to point out racist behaviour against people of colour, although they might also add the notion of “otherness” to their definition. No matter how much people tell me we are all one race, I can still feel difference does influence how we feel about each “other”. Yes, it’s something to contend with, but I doubt we can have it programmed out of ourselves completely. Again, this is an area I’ll come back to later, partly because it’s such an uncomfortable one to deal with.

* * *

1978 – Saved by the Girl

I wore a blue Parker coat most of the time during the winter. One of the pockets on the right had a hole in it, which at first was annoying, but then I realised I could use it to make things disappear, especially from shops.

My main target was acquiring sunglasses. One week I went to an optician in Wallington High Street, tried on a few glasses and when they weren’t looking pocketed a few. At one point the old woman serving me asked where I’d put one of the pairs, she’d just shown me. A cold fear ran through me, “I put them back on the shelf,” I said. She grabbed a few pairs down and luckily for me, there was an exact same pair amongst those she’d chosen. But I’m sure she gave me a suspicious look.

The next day at school I sold them all for a highly reduced rate, and demand was high, so, on the way home, I popped into a chemist in Wallington High Street. The cashier was one of the girls from the chess club car park. She helped me go through a few pairs and then left me and my accomplice to look through the carousel. I think we took about seven pairs all in all and then walked out of the shop. As we walked off the girl came out of the shop and ran up to us. “Simon!” she said, “I saw what you just did then, I saw you take those glasses, don’t ever do that again, next time I’ll call the police. Don’t be stupid.”

I could see my days as a criminal mastermind were numbered, so I got a new coat with shallower pockets and decided to try getting a job.

* * *

1978 – Gradual Moments

I was mixing with violent people, being violent at home, stealing from people and only curbing that because I feared being caught. If ever there was a need for an axis point in my life, then this would have been the ideal time. But I’m not sure, even now, if one can talk about a moment of change, that doesn’t feel real to me. When I meet people who tell me that one moment changed their life around, I can’t help but feel a bit doubtful. Generally, big change tends to be gradual.

* * *

1985 – Therapy – Tavistock Clinic

Mrs H: Why do you come to these sessions?

Me: Because I want to be cured.

Mrs H: Do you think therapy will cure you?

Me: Yes, if not, what’s the point in coming?

Mrs H: I don’t know if you can describe it as a cure, that would mean the problem doesn’t exist anymore, like ridding a body of a virus. But these feelings you have, they might not ever go away totally. Maybe therapy will help you to deal with the feelings, or it will help you not to behave in ways that make them worse, but I can’t promise to cure you of them.