November 1979
The bus pulled up in front of St Hillier’s Hospital on the Rosehill Estate. True, much of the housing was situated on a hill but it certainly wasn’t very rosy. The hospital was white and so large it could be seen from many parts of London given its position on the rim of the artesian basin surrounding the River Thames.
I thanked the driver and got off.
This was the hospital where my brother Stephen had been born a year or so earlier. Right in front of it was a park, although back then it was more of a large expanse of land where dogs would do their business. Walking across it was always done at great risk to one’s footwear, and required a clear focused mind and body to navigate it safely. The beginning of the famous 70s martial arts series, Kung Fu, starring David Carradine, often showed the hero walking across rice paper as a test of stealth. Walking across this park without getting dog shit on one’s shoes was far, far harder, although, admittedly far less cinematic.
The place I was aiming for, Tweeddale School, was a few hundred metres along a road to the side of the ‘park’. So, to avoid traversing the poo-mine field, I took the long cut. I wasn’t one to live dangerously when it came to dog poo. Even so, in the 70s, dog poo was rarely cleared from pathways, which resulted in getting to know certain poos over time as they tended to stay in position for many months, sometimes years even. They’d become almost reassuring in their continued presence, like homely landmarks. There were a few I’d come to know that had a kind of poetry about them. We’d witness them getting old, turning white with age and finally, disappearing; at which point we’d feel an admittedly slight amount of grieving, for a second or two. Sometimes a little faint stain in the paving acted as a long-term memorial and after all these years, there are some I still remember fondly. Even dog poo can fill one with nostalgia.
When I got to Tweeddale school, there was no sign of anyone there. Unperturbed, I carried on investigating and found a wooden gateway at the back that opened to reveal a few more buildings. I felt I was on a quest and being tested. As I closed the gate behind me, I heard noises coming from one of the buildings nearby. In front of me was a gym with windows around it, and inside I could see people kicking a kick-bag and moving around in karate suits. The man I had talked to in Westcroft Sports Centre was there too, so, I went in and asked him if I could join in. He smiled and said yes, then told me to stand in the back row and follow the others.
* * *
For all my resistance to John’s authority, there was still a yearning in me for father figures and discipline. Either consciously or not, I recognised Karate could offer not only that but also the chance to learn to fight more effectively. What I was not aware of was it would also help me become more acquainted with the world of men, and as we shall see, women.
In most cultures, the beginning of moving from being a child to an adult occurs around the age of 13, and the need to display some kind of symbol to mark this transition is often common too. When I looked at those coloured belts, I wanted one. I wanted to be recognised for accomplishing something because, so far, I felt I hadn’t accomplished anything that could be seen as worthy.
* * *
April 1979 – Grenoble – France
If this was a film, the frames would slow down, freeze, and then rewind quickly to earlier in the year.
I’m on a bus in Grenoble in France. One of my teachers is trying to help me get my bus ticket out of my pocket, I’m almost insisting he doesn’t.
“It’s ok sir, I can do it,” I say.
I lean over and try to get the ticket but there’s a paper bag in the way.
“Oh, let me help you,” he says.
As I cry, “No!” his hand is in my pocket removing the paper bag and even before he gets to the ticket, a flick knife falls to the floor. He looks at me, and his face turns to thunder. After we get off the bus, he tells me he’d trusted me when I said I couldn’t join the group because my leg was hurting. Really though, it was just a ruse so I could buy the knife. He then drops the knife down a drain. I didn’t lose my temper, but I felt so angry with him for throwing something away I’d spent my money on, that I was adamant I’d never forgive him. forty-three years later and we’ve been friends on Facebook for years.
* * *
April 1979 – Grenoble – France
As part of our French studies at Wilson’s, we were encouraged to be part of an exchange programme which meant going to Grenoble. Grenoble was a big city near the foothills of the Alps in France. The idea behind the scheme was to spend a couple of weeks living with a family and attend a school there, and in return, the child we’d been paired with would come to stay with us. When we arrived in Grenoble we were paired with our counterparts; there was a look of contempt from one of the kids and the more I hoped we were not going to be put together, the more I knew we would be, and, of course, my gut feeling was right. Whilst his family and I got on well straight away, he and I did not connect. The only thing I wasn’t keen on, outside of his dislike of me, was the big black family dog that also seemed not to be too keen on me either. Whenever I was in its presence it growled and followed me around, its teeth visible. I also got the feeling my fear of the dog was the source of my exchange victim’s greatest pleasure for that fortnight.
Most of the kids from Wilson’s didn’t come from a council estate, so it was ironic we ended up living on one as part of our exchange. Even though this was a newish one called the Villeneuve, it was already known as a hot spot for tensions between youths and the police. The stairwell and lifts smelt of piss, and although there was a lack of dog poo, I felt very much at home there; it was as if I was back on Roundshaw. In those days the Villeneuve emitted an air of hopefulness for a dream of a brave crap world, what with its multicoloured tower blocks and a school filled with classrooms with no corners and, and… well that was about it. But maybe there was a subconscious logic in the architect’s vision after all. While the children played on the grass areas encircled by the blocks of flats, and orange spotlights allowed playing till after the sky had disappeared, it was almost as if the architects wanted them to feel at home; I mean when they’d eventually end up in prison.
* * *
1979 – A Grassy Play Area in the Villeneuve
Some boys in our group were play fighting, showing each other how to get out of certain “self-defence” situations. A Vietnamese boy, who looked a bit like Bruce Lee to the untrained eye, was living up to our racist stereotype expectations of him being a martial arts expert. At this point, I hadn’t done any martial arts training apart from my childhood karate sessions on Roundshaw and looking at some Bruce Tegner self-defence books. So, as he demonstrated a stranglehold that would be near impossible to escape from, I told him I could definitely get out of it. He took the challenge, grabbed me around the neck from behind, and applied some pressure. I dug my chin into the crease of his elbow, pushed his elbow towards his fist then whacked my head backwards into his face. There was a crunch and a gasp from those watching as he let go and fell to the ground. I turned around to see what the fuss was about; his lip had split apart and quite a bit of blood was oozing out and dribbling from his chin. He nodded approvingly.
I was still in the mode of trying to be a hard man, even though, you, me and most of the kids from my school know I wasn’t.
One of the kids from Nigeria, and, “not that it matters,” but he was black, came up to me and said, “You should meet my brother, he does Taekwondo.”
“I’d love to, can he teach me some?”
“I’ll ask him,” he says smiling.
“Thanks, do you do it?” I ask.
“A little,” he says.
He jumped in the air, spun and did a kick which I was very impressed by. So, the next day I went to his apartment. It was visibly a male-only flat. Sparse, just a table, cooker, and some metal chairs and there was something unnerving about the place, it had the feel of a lair. When his brother came in, he said, “My brother tells me you want to learn some taekwondo”, I nodded affirmatively. He then kicked the kitchen door with a high roundhouse kick. There was a loud bang as it slammed shut.
“Come here,” he said, “I’ll show you something”.
I stand up.
“Try to kick me,” he shouts excitedly, “try to kick me in the balls,”
“I can’t, I don’t want to.”
“Go on, try!” he ordered.
So, I kicked toward him. He spun around me, threw a punch to my head, kicked my leg away, and then grabbed me so I didn’t hit the floor.
“That’s amazing,” I said, “will you show me how to do that, please?”
So, for the next hour, he made me practice it repeatedly until I started to get it.
Afterwards, I felt invincible, the rush of delusion felt incredible.
* * *
2018 – Karate – Part 1
There’s something that Karate and psychoanalysis have in common. It’s related to bringing people to a more honest understanding of themselves. Our society has created generations of people who have very little understanding of their true physical limits because they have never been tested. It was no coincidence that as National Service ended, football hooliganism increased massively. Young people want to know themselves because without doing so they will be filled with self-doubt. They posture, copy lines they’ve heard in films and enjoy the thrill of delusion that acting out a part can give you. But ultimately, a virtue untested is no virtue at all, no matter how much comfort it gives us. In many ways, our society created generations of excellent actors and I was heading for a leading role.
* * *
1979 – Grenoble
The father of my exchange victim was a small thin man with a humped back, glasses and a President Lincoln-type beard. The mother was chubby with dark wavy hair. I immediately connected with them and felt at home.
Each morning we’d have chocolate with loads of sugar lumps to drink, cereal and croissants, so, for the rest of the day I’d be bouncing off the walls, and in the evening, there’d be a lovely multiple-course meal.
I probably could have stayed a lot longer if I’d been allowed, but one day I was in their bathroom looking at the wall-size photograph of a forest, trying to work out if it was my eyes or could foliage really be that luminous when for a moment, I missed home, the grey clouds and rain, I even missed John, a tiny bit.
* * *
1979 – Grenoble
Wherever I went in their apartment that fucking dog followed me growling. For special moments it would bark at me ferociously. I tried to make friends with it, stroked it, fed it, and showed it I was genuinely terrified, but it wouldn’t let up. If I was desperate to go to the loo at night it was like running a gauntlet, as he would bark and growl, waking everyone else up. After a while, if I woke up wanting a pee I’d be filled with dread. I’m sure my exchange buddy trained him to hate me.
* * *
2023 – The Fate of a Fool
When I start to write these chapters I make notes about things I want to cover, write down ideas on my phone, and research old diaries, books, and the Internet. After some time, themes start to emerge organically. Once I get to that point my mind will focus on those issues a lot, so much so, I can’t get to sleep thinking about them. As I thought about this chapter, especially about Karate, I was struck by how often people ask what grade I am. The simple answer is I wasn’t a high grade, and I was never any good. Even so, I loved it, training from 14 up until I was 59.
When people start doing most new sports they dream about success, maybe winning a competition, being respected for mastering something, teaching it to others, and so on. In reality, though, these things become the by-product of the activity becoming a way of life, a process that one loves being involved with.
I gained qualifications in painting, I am naturally competent at it and love doing it, but I love doing music more. I don’t have any qualifications in music and doubt I could ever achieve any because what I have learned has very little to do with the formal learning route. However, to me, that’s not important, because I love doing it anyway.
I have qualifications in other things, but that was about proving to others I could work in those fields. Whilst I still like teaching, I wouldn’t want to do it all the time; likewise, I’m qualified in computer science and can work in it to some degree too but preferred to only do it part-time. I don’t have qualifications in photography, but I worked as a studio photographer and enjoyed it. So, this made me wonder about our obsession with focusing on qualifications.
Anyone who is considered an expert by others will nearly always agree that other experts in their fields will disagree with them on many issues. Being an expert, having qualifications, or having martial arts belts, doesn’t mean you’re the fountain of knowledge. If anything, expertise teaches us humility, because we’ve come to realise our limitations.
In a deck of Tarot cards, there is the image of the fool. The archetypal fool can represent the ability to bring about new ways of doing and seeing things. From the moment we are born, we start to play with things and want to master the world around us, not just because we want to control it but because we love the process of learning, discovery and knowing.
Qualifications may be a way to feel significant, but playfulness and mastering things are a part of loving life. I don’t want to criticise our need to feel significant because I think in many ways that’s important too, but perhaps our greatest ambition should be to enjoy doing things for the love of it.
* * *
1979 – Grenoble – Flick Knife
I had been walking around Grenoble with the rest of my schoolmates and a couple of teachers. We’d got close to the Bastille, which was a fortress that was high on a hill when I spotted a shop selling flick knives. I told the teacher that, my legs were hurting, and I couldn’t make the walk up the hill, so they let me wait for them there. That’s when I bought the flick knife from quite a concerned-looking shopkeeper. He probably thought I’d lost my arms because of not handling one properly in the first place. It would have all gone to plan had I remembered to put the bus ticket above the knife in my pocket. But I must have had a guardian angel watching over me that day.
* * *
1979 – Tweeddale Karate Club
The film pauses again and fast-forwards to November.
I stood in the back row; I knew I didn’t know what I was doing. The teacher was strict, and I obeyed. I was the same age as my father when he joined the army. I didn’t know that then, as we hadn’t yet met, but now when I think about it, it seems it was in our DNA to make way for our warrior archetypes to show their faces at 14.
* * *
16th October 2018 – Mastering
The word “Master” has its roots in the Latin noun “magister” which means, “one who has control and authority.” More recently it came to mean “to acquire complete knowledge of.” As one gains more knowledge one realises that it’s very rare for anyone to acquire a complete knowledge of their discipline. Even in the more measured fields of science, there tends to be disagreement regarding the higher theoretical areas. Consequently, it becomes hard to accept something as a scientific “truth” when somewhere down the line someone else proves it’s not 100% accurate. If we didn’t think of mastering as “to acquire complete knowledge of something” but instead went back “to acquire a great deal of knowledge of something” then I think the definition would be far more accurate.
In 1981, Gwynne Thomas, who was one of the top civil servants under Margaret Thatcher, said to me, “Don’t ever trust people who are labelled as experts. A load of so-called experts just designed a new train for the London Underground and the carriages are too big to fit in the tunnels safely.” Whilst that stuck in my mind, I was still star-struck by the martial artists I came to meet, even into my twenties. It wasn’t that they didn’t deserve a lot of respect, it was my desire to idealise them that was a problem, mainly because it just wasn’t realistic.
As we get older or even just progress through the journey of studying something in depth, we start to recognise in others, the different stages that we have passed through previously. At that point too, we are passing through yet another stage, but I doubt many of us would believe we have learned all there is to know.
At 53 I can still feel the warrior archetype has a big role in my internal world. I still train regularly and at times can feel my violent desires, especially if someone pisses me off. That doesn’t mean I would do anything, even if I could, but I am willing to accept that part of who I am is driven by primaeval influences.
For the last few days, I’ve been watching Season One of Vikings and was struck by how many people in our society style themselves in a similar way to how we perceive Vikings looked, and how popular tattooing has become. It’s as if the more sophisticated we are, and the more sociologically engineered we feel, then the more we are drawn to reconnect with our primordial selves.
* * *
2018 – The Fool and the Master
I have mentioned before that when it comes to humans, they can’t be reprogrammed completely. Living in a world where we can program computers and some genes, many believe we can program humans too. Behind this belief lies the issue of idealism versus realism. Even in the world of Martial Arts, this debate rages too. Some martial arts end with the word “Do”, as in Ju-Do, which roughly translates as the “art of doing something”, whereas others use the word Jitsu, as in Ju-Jitsu which tends to be translated as “realistic” or “true”. In other words, the practical way of doing something.
Throughout our lives, we’ll probably recognise this issue in many areas of life, especially in politics, as in, is it “idealism” or “pragmatism” that we mostly hold our faith in? These are fundamental values that in some instances may decide our survival or destruction.
The fool and the master circle each other but neither are sure who is who.
* * *
1940 – Vernon
In the early days of World War 2, Vernon, who was brought up in Barnsley in South Yorkshire and had a strong Northern accent, was asked to attend an interview by the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS). He was already well known in academic circles for his papers on French education and for being something of a specialist regarding all things to do with Belgium. During the 1930s he’d travelled widely around Europe, especially France and Belgium, where he picked up some of the local accents to such an extent he was now being considered as an agent to work behind enemy lines. One of the interviewers asked in a very plummy accent, “Do you think your Yorkshire intonation might come through in any way?’
“I du ‘ope not,” he said smiling.
After some training, he was covertly taken to Brussels where he helped coordinate the local underground resistance. This mainly consisted of publishing pamphlets and disseminating information. One day one of the young teenage boys came to him to say his father had found out he was delivering some of the pamphlets and had beaten him for doing so. Vernon told him it would be okay to stop but the boy wanted to carry on.
For Vernon, his job primarily required fitting in as a local and most importantly not sticking out in any way. Outside of reporting information between England and the underground members, life was quiet and in time, he settled and befriended a woman with whom he felt very connected. During his time there, he knew he was living a lie and that meant not getting too close to those around him. So, as the war in Europe came to an end and the celebration party for the members of the underground proceeded, he felt a bittersweetness.
The father who had beaten his son turned out to be the editor of the underground pamphlets. He apologised to his son, explaining to him that it was because he was the editor, he’d been so determined to put him off. Not only did he not want his son to be in danger, but he was also worried they might all end up being discovered.
The relationship between the woman and Vernon did not blossom into a romance. Maybe seeing she didn’t really know him, or he could so easily take on another persona, created a wedge between them, but even so, they kept in contact for the rest of their lives. She eventually married someone else while Vernon returned to the world of education. As the years passed, he’d often visit the woman and her husband who he became friends with too. In time they had children, one of whom was born with an absent lower arm. Maybe this was the son Vernon never had, the one he would have had, or maybe in a way it was a symbol of himself, a boy with something missing. Either way, he felt very close to this child and because of this relationship, he became interested in how children with disabilities were dealt with in the education system.
When I was 11, Mum and I visited Vernon for the first time. He was already in his late 60s but was busy writing many books and still working in academia, both as a professor and dean at a major university.
Every year Mum would send me to stay with him in his flat in Walmer, near Deal in Kent. He was one of the many father figures that affected me. He tended to be quite direct. If I told him something I didn’t like about my mother, for instance, he’d tell me she was right and why he thought so, but I didn’t mind. He would explain himself which was one of the many things I liked about him. Somewhere in those stays, he planted some of the seeds of my redemption. I needed male mentors, and he was a good one. He would tell me stories about Graham Greene, who he knew and didn’t like, and Ian Flemming, who he knew as well, but resented somewhat for using the word “Spy” in his 007 novels, as they were not spies.
One day he told me about a fellow professor whose main interest was geology. “He had no formal qualifications, but he loved the subject so much and wrote so many great papers on it that the university made him a professor. Nowadays he wouldn’t be allowed into the university; he wouldn’t have been able to pass the entrance requirements. Who is the education system for? If it’s ultimately for the advancement of society then it’s not doing a very good job is it?”
I could be impressed by the men who could roundhouse kick a door in Grenoble but there was something I knew to be more nourishing in the likes of Vernon or Grant my new karate teacher.
In his later years, Vernon bought a gold Ford Capri which rather impressed me because I didn’t expect him to have that kind of car. He was also friends with Ian Fletcher, the doctor who I mentioned in an earlier chapter, the one who was in the magic circle, well, he also had a very fast Nissan Sports car. Both, it seems, had a penchant for fast cars. Maybe they’d learned to only let their warrior archetypes out between work and home.
Vernon
* * *
September 2018 – Dream
I’m in a strange triangular-shaped living room; on one side there is a balcony that overlooks the sea where a young girl is, she’s probably in her teens. I go out to her, and say, “Hello”. She’s a guest in this kind of hotel which I am the owner of. She says “Hello,” quietly.
I walk back into the living room and there is another window looking out onto the sea too. I can see big waves coming towards us, so I say to her, “Look, have a look at this.” We both do so, and she says, “It’s a bit dangerous living so close to the sea”. I say “Well, this property has been here a long time, but I guess there is a risk that I could be in trouble in the future. Especially with global warming and all that.”
Her parents walk into the living room. I realise they have been guests before. I remember a previous conversation we had had. It had been about her father looking like he was a teacher, when in fact he wasn’t. It’s such a real memory that later when I woke up, I wondered whether I had actually had a dream with them in previously or was it simply a memory made up within that dream.
At one point, I hear his wife whisper something like, “I think he is an unsuccessful artist who’s become a teacher.”
I say, “Are you talking about me?”
She says, “Yes.”
So, I ask, “Well, what do you count as a successful artist? Is it someone who has made lots of money and is recognised by their peers?”
They both say, “Yes.”
I ask another question, “What if they are very unhappy, what about if they don’t even like doing art, are they a successful artist then?”
The husband says, “No, not completely,” and his wife nods in agreement.
I then put to them, “What about if I enjoy doing art?”
I can see that the other people in the room, other guests are nodding in agreement, they get what I’m saying. I look at the couple and say, “People are defined by their peers. They can say they are an artist, but if no one else agrees then they tend to be seen as deluded. But success is another matter, that can be measured in all sorts of ways.”
When I wake up, I realise the dream is telling me something, it’s telling me not to be a hotelier.
* * *
1977 – Aged 12 – Beat the Intro
I was sitting at the main terminus bus stop on Roundshaw. It was dark, but the air was still hot from a summer’s sunny day. A car pulled up across the road, someone was smoking in the driver’s seat and their window was down. They had their car stereo on loud. Some guitar notes were playing, quite long ones with big spaces between. Suddenly the drums kicked in along with a rhythm guitar and then the bass line thumped through the air. A voice sang out about surrendering on the quayside, hiding in the shadows and counting numbers down… to the waterline. The car’s front wheels spun and then shot off fast.
I didn’t know it then but that was my introduction to the music of Dire Straits.
* * *
1979 – Grenoble to Dijon
During the middle of our stay in Grenoble, the family I was staying with took me to one of their extended family parties in Dijon. Outside of getting me a bit tipsy on champagne, I don’t remember much (maybe I was tipsier than I thought), but at one point, one of the guys there took me to a room and insisted on playing me an album of music which he said was fantastic. When I listened to it, it didn’t grab me. I knew one of the songs from the radio and recognised the first track, it was the one I’d heard at the bus stop a few years before. It was the first album by Dire Straits, a music band that would become a big part of my and many other people’s lives in a few years.
1979 – Survival of the British
Mum had put a camp bed up for my French exchange “survivor”; needless to say, he was less than impressed. To add further to his woes, I had a big tropical fish tank in my room and his head was positioned at the end of it for maximum disturbance of sleep patterns. Not only was he homesick but he didn’t like anything about England. Admittedly Mum’s food was not the finest example of English cuisine but who doesn’t like chips? I mean they’re called French Fries for God’s sake. Okay, not by French people. Anyway, he hardly ate anything, nor did he get much sleep, the weather was bad and we didn’t get on. I don’t think he ever came back to England and imagine he was one of the many Europeans who cheered when the Brexit vote came through.
At one point, he said something that annoyed me. I had a hairbrush on a stick that looked like a lavatory brush, so, I threw it at him. I couldn’t understand his French but I’m sure it was something along the lines of, “How much worse can life get?”
I would have felt sorry for him, but the memory of his dog was still raw and, as you’re getting to see, I wasn’t a very nice person.
* * *
October 2018 – Connecting
Over the last month or so I have been working on the previous few chapters, initially because a piece of my music-making equipment needed repairing, so I thought I’d use the time to not only write but get some space from the music album I was working on. During this time as people have come to mind, I have searched them out on the Internet and tried to get back in touch. Overall, it’s been a touching experience and helped to bring back many memories.
I haven’t heard from a lot of these people for between 30 to 40 years. I know you might be thinking they were trying to tell me something, but just in case they weren’t, I sent them a message.
For most of them, our last communication would have been by letter. There was a ceremony around corresponding by post, and whilst I wouldn’t want to go back to it, it had some elements about it I miss. Waiting for a reply and its subsequent arrival had an emotional resonance and writing a letter by hand had a measure of romance that linked back to hundreds of years of tradition.
Every week I would probably write two or three letters and that went on right up to around 1996 when the Internet became a big part of my life. From then on communication involved looking at a screen and typing or putting a piece of plastic and glass to our faces to make a call. Previously a heavy home phone receiver pressed against our ear whilst we spoke into a mouthpiece, and apart from being heavy, the cost of calls tended to limit the length of chatting too.
Lee, (the guy I met in hospital when I had my foot removed), and I stayed in contact quite a bit. Lee was in a boarding school so had plenty of time to write. We also figured out a way of calling each other for free. We would go to phone boxes near where we lived at a pre-arranged time agreed in a letter then one of us would call the operator and request a reverse charge call, (collect call), to the other public pay phone. The operator would call that number and ask whichever one of us answered if we were willing to accept the charge, to which we’d say yes, and then we’d chat without having to pay for hours until it got too cold, or a queue of people grew outside the phone box. It was during some of these calls and letters, we arranged to meet up at a holiday camp for disabled kids during the summer.
* * *
1979 – Holiday Campsite for Disabled
George and Clive had no legs, they were bouncing on a trampoline on the lawn just outside the reception area when we arrived at the campsite. My heart sank because Clive was the guy who had given me a black eye in hospital when I grassed him up for smoking. George was just plain dangerous and Veronica, the girl who’d held my legs down as he punched me, was there too and there was something about her that scared me also.
Lee, who’d got the minibus with me from the hospital was less filled with dread. Instead, Clive was wary of him because once when they’d come to blows, Lee had unattached the hook from his artificial arm and thrown it at Clive’s head catching him just above the eye. At that moment, their relationship was defined with Lee being marked as, “dangerous”.
The campsite, which was a big field surrounded by trees had a main meeting hall, a toilet/shower block, a cookhouse to one side of it and tucked into the hillside, just below the main camping area, was an outdoor heated swimming pool. Lee and I were allotted a tent at the edge of the field near the drop to the pool. Another kid whom we hadn’t met before was allocated our tent too.
The first evening went as most introductory events go, but from the outset, we made it clear we were aligned with the bad kids. For all the hassle we might get from the adult world, it wouldn’t be as bad as the risks involved in going against George or Clive. Whilst they were in their mid-teens, they had an edge of violence about them that scared us, but even being on their side came with its risks.
On the first night, Lee, Clive, Veronica, George and I crept down to the swimming pool for a swim. It was eerie because a lot of steam was coming off the pool while all around us came the sounds of animals doing what animals do at night. We quietly slipped into the pool, whispering, and swimming as silently as we could. Suddenly I felt a hand grab my hair and push me underwater. Even in the darkness, I could tell it was Clive. I struggled, but couldn’t escape, I thought he was going to let go of me, but he didn’t. I struggled more, kicking off from the bottom of the pool, but I couldn’t get above the surface of the water for a breath. I started to punch at his hand, I was feeling desperate, thinking he was going to kill me, I twisted frantically, then his hand was gone and I came to the surface. As I gasped for air both Clive and George were laughing.
“You could have killed me,” I said.
“We were only having a laugh, what’s the matter with you?” he said.
Veronica, who was sitting on the side of the pool could hear what had happened, “Leave him alone Clive, stop being a cunt,” she said in her strong London accent.
Lee put his hand on Clive’s head and pushed him down, but Clive batted his arm away.
“Fuck off Lee,” Clive barked.
“Ya Don like it whan sumone duz it t’you, d’ya?” Lee said.
“Just watch it, Lee,” Clive warned.
“Fuk off,” Lee said disparagingly.
We slunk out of the pool, then made our way back up the hill to our tents. Still wet and shivering we got into our sleeping bags, had a chat then slept.
When I woke up it was to the sound of Lee complaining about something. There was a strong smell of shit. The boy sharing our tent had a colostomy bag which had leaked and due to us sleeping on a hill, he had slid towards Lee, who was now daubed in poo. When it came to urine or colostomy bags Lee was obviously not well-fated. After Lee got cleaned up and the tent had been sorted out, we asked if we could not share the tent with the guy anymore. Our wish was granted. The downside to this was the kid then told on us for swimming in the pool, so we were hauled in and given a stern warning that we’d be sent home if we did it again. A bit later, we watched the kid heading to his new tent, we checked for staff, then both of us ran past him and kicked his crutches into the air so he fell back. As we picked him up, we warned him that if he crossed us again there’d be hell to pay. He cried and we walked off feeling very self-satisfied. To him, we were as bad and frightening as Clive and George were to us.
* * *
1979 – Campsite
Relatively speaking, my misdemeanours were quite mild at this point, but I was certainly heading in the same direction as Clive and George. Clive eventually ended up doing time in prison, then after a period of substance abuse became a beggar. The last time I saw him he was begging outside a station in Richmond. I don’t know what happened to him after that. As for George, I think he ended up in prison; he was extremely violent and even though he had no legs he was a formidable fighter. I don’t know what path his life took either, but he certainly identified a lot with his own warrior archetype.
* * *
1979 – Campsite – The Drowning
For a day or so there was a truce between us, even so, Clive thought it was funny to try drowning me again but this time I fought back and started to lose my temper with him. At that point, he swam off. A few minutes later there was a bit of a panic, then we realised that one of the kids was being hauled out of the pool. As a couple of people applied mouth-to-mouth and cardiac resuscitation, we could see he was in a bad way. His eye sockets and lips were a purple-blue colour, and he was coughing up leaves and a bit later he died. He wasn’t supposed to have gone into the pool as he had epilepsy. There would, of course, be an inquiry, and changes would be made, but for this child, it was all too late.
Clive had lost his legs whilst playing on train lines, Lee had lost his hand and foot playing between train carriages. Some kids, if they get the chance, will take deadly risks.
* * *
1979 – Campsite – Deserved Punishment
From that point on a sombre air permeated the camp and a few days later a memorial service was arranged for the kid who died, which his mother would be attending. All of us were summoned to attend the ceremony which was held around a tree in the centre of the site. Although Lee and I sat at the back and were out of view of the mother, our decision to get the giggles didn’t go unnoticed. One of the older male organisers put his hand over my mouth, his other hand on the back of my neck and marched me away from the service, then pushed me to the ground and quite rightly gave me a full-throttled dressing down. He then placed me in the main meeting room and informed me I would be sent home.
After the formalities of the memorial service ended, people were milling around outside. I could see some of the other kids talking about me whilst Clive, George and Veronica observed from a distance.
The main door slid open and two of the organisers came in.
The man who had pinned me to the ground said, “I think your behaviour has been disgusting, you don’t deserve to be allowed to stay here, but Dennis here, he thinks you should be offered a chance at redemption. He thinks you should be allowed to stay if you work in the cookhouse till the end of the week. Do you want to do that?”
I sorrowfully nodded yes.
The other man interjected “Well?”
“Thank you. I’m sorry” I said.
“We’ve offered the same deal for your mate too and he’s agreed to the same terms,” Dennis said.
I continued the regretful act but knowing that Lee was going to keep me company in our punishment, filled me with joy.
* * *
1979 – Campsite – The Spotted Cow
Working in the cookhouse meant cleaning the pans used for cooking, some were so big that I could sit in them whilst I scraped off the dried porridge. It also involved serving food and dealing with selling sweets in the tuck shop. True to our Robin Hood selves we served big portions to those we liked and not so big ones to those we didn’t, and when it came to selling sweets, we gave more change back to our chosen flock than they gave us in the first place. So, over a few days, we cemented more allegiance from a few of the kids, and because we got on with our duties so dutifully, the management felt we were taking our punishment seriously and were at least learning a lesson.
What this also meant was that outside of our chores, we were free to do what we liked. So, one evening we went for a walk to the local pub, The Spotted Cow. We were 14 years old, and the legal age for being in a pub unaccompanied was 18.
“Just be confident, walk up to the bar and calmly ask for a drink,” Lee said.
So, we walked in and approached the bar. A blond woman with short hair said, “Hello Gentlemen, what can I get you?”
Lee said, “Half a shandy Luv,” (look it’s the 1970’s).
“And you sir?” she said tilting her head at me.
“A snowball please,” Outside of a Babycham, it was the only alcoholic drink I liked.
She almost burst out laughing but kept a straight face, “Would you like a cherry on that sir?”
“Yes please,” I said smiling.
“Take a seat, I’ll bring them over,” she said.
The pub was empty.
“Ayup,” said Lee, “They’ve got a one-armed bandit, d’ya wanna have a go, Simon?”
“OK,” I said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll ‘elp ya, I play one like this all the time up in Barnsley.”
So, I put 50p in and didn’t win a thing, and that was the end of my gambling days, (excluding doing the lottery). Losing 50p back then was quite a bit, but in its way, it was a very cheap lesson.
“You are over 18, aren’t you?” The bar lady asked.
“Yes, I’m 19 and he’s 18,” Lee said. Then he reeled off our dates of birth as previously prepared.
“It’s ok,” she said, “I’m just checking.”
“Aw don’t worry, we’re always being asked, aren’t we Simon? We look young for our age.” Lee said with yet another well-rehearsed performance.
I nodded in agreement.
She knew we were underage, but in those days, especially in country pubs, it wasn’t a big deal and as long as she asked us if we were over 18 and we gave the correct answers, it wasn’t a problem. Well, that’s what I planned on telling the judge.
* * *
1979 – Campsite – My Enemy’s Enemy
It wasn’t all plain sailing over the remaining days. Lee and I were seen as being delinquent, especially by the staff, and there were quite a few people who wanted to bring us down a peg or two.
At one point one of the Scoutmasters went for me, I can’t remember why, but I expect he had good reason to. He pushed me down and with his hand around my throat said something like “Either he goes, or I go!” Yes, I definitely must have said something bad, and it probably didn’t help matters when my reaction to his ultimatum was to say, “Bye then, do you need help packing?” At that point, he lifted his arm to thump me but within a second Clive was by his side, grabbing his arm and saying. “If you touch him, you’ll have me to deal with.” Which probably allowed him to pull back from his anger enough to back off. From then on Clive was much friendlier towards me as I had become his enemy’s enemy.
A bit later, one of the men who worked in the kitchen with us told me I couldn’t hurt a fly, that I hadn’t defended myself against the Scoutmaster’s attack. So, remembering what the Taekwondo guy had taught me in Grenoble I suggested he try kicking me in the balls. This must have been an odd response because he looked a bit perturbed. He probably thought that if he hurt me, he’d be in trouble and if by some miracle I managed to hurt him he wouldn’t look good either. For some reason, he too became a bit friendlier towards me after that. I was beginning to sense there were complicated codes of allegiance and respect that I hadn’t come across before, probably because men start to recognise that at 14, boys are beginning to no longer be children, although they certainly aren’t men either.
* * *
1979 – Tweeddale Karate Club
I had been going to the karate club for about five weeks when Grant couldn’t take a session. Instead, one of the brown belts called Martin took it and “not that it matters” but he was white. Within about five minutes, he told me to sit in the corner because I had been talking when I shouldn’t have. I knew I had to do what I was told but was still cursing under my breath. After about 20 minutes he said, “Do you think you can behave yourself now?”
“Yes, sir,” I said sheepishly.
“Well get in line then.”
And from then on, at least in the karate dojo, I did.
* * *
Dedicated to Vernon Mallinson born 27 February 1910 and died 1991 – Awarded the Ordre de Leopold II
And to Chris, the kid who died at the holiday camp.
