How Did All This Happen?. John Bishop

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СКАЧАТЬ I would never smoke, a promise he made all four of us make to him from a very early age, and which none of us has broken – apart from allowing myself the odd cigar. (That habit began one night in a posh hotel in Valletta, Malta. I found myself alone with an 80-year-old barman called Sonny, drinking a glass of whisky and listening to Frank Sinatra. Having a cigar seemed the most appropriate thing in the world.)

      When I was 13 and feeling the need to be more independent and spread my wings outside the estate, football things were replaced by a bicycle. It was a silver ‘racer’, which basically meant it weighed a ton but had curved handlebars. Due to a cock-up by the catalogue company, I didn’t actually get the bike till Easter, so on Christmas Day my present was a box containing Cluedo. A great game, but not a great way to get around the estate. I hope I hid my disappointment well enough on the day when asking through gritted teeth – when my mates were all out on their new bikes – ‘Was it Professor Green with the lead piping?’

      With the ability to stagger repayments, the catalogue was the avenue through which many people on the estate purchased things that were out of their reach financially. Every time a White Arrow van arrived on the estate, you knew someone was getting something from the catalogue. The bike was my final present as a child. Every year previously for Christmas I received something football-related. After the bike, all my Christmas presents were things to make me look good or allow me to go out; in other words, money or clothes. Unless it was a book voucher, which no kid wants as a Christmas present – you may as well give them an abacus and say, ‘Go and try to be a bit cleverer next year.’

      The progression of a boy’s life can be mapped out by the Christmas presents he receives: a kit; a ball; one year I got a Subbuteo set with two teams, England and Uruguay. Nobody knew where Uruguay was, but they played in a blue kit and all the players were painted brown, so when I played Subbuteo, it was always England v the Black Everton.

      As I got older, other things became more important to me, such as trying to be fashionable. I particularly remember receiving my first Fred Perry T-shirt, a yellow one with brown trim, which I don’t think I took off until it was physically too small to get on and had begun to look like a bra. But the only way of providing you with something that allowed you to make up your own mind was with money. Cash became king in my teenage years when it came to presents. I could buy records, although I never went too crazy on this: I rationalised that there is always new music, so why spend your money on something you like now when something better may be out next week? These are the decisions you had to make when it came to records, as they were things of permanence, not like a download. Even if you weren’t playing it, you had to put it somewhere, and I couldn’t always be bothered with that level of responsibility. Besides, being the youngest allowed me to listen to the music the others brought into the house, on either vinyl or cassette. I realise for readers of a certain age these things may as well be tablets of stone, and for others they provided hours of musical joy, but to me they were just more things I had to put away.

      By the time I was 15 I had discovered girls. I knew they had existed before, obviously – I lived with two of them. But I mean I became more interested in them than I was in my mates. However, it should be made clear that I wasn’t exactly a lothario when it came to girls, and I had all the awkwardness that comes with being a teenage boy. These ranged from thinking that the best way of attracting the attention of a girl you fancied was by throwing something at her head (Paula); to being so unworldly wise that the first time a girl French-kissed me I pulled away, spat on the floor and shouted, ‘What did you stick your tongue down my mouth for? You dirty cow!’ (Jane).

      This growing interest coincided with a failed car-stealing incident. It was not an unusual pastime for teenage boys on the estate to steal motor scooters from gardens. They were easy to jump-start, and you could have a few hours of fun before the petrol ran out, someone crashed or you just left it somewhere – usually always stupidly close to home, to save the walk.

      Somehow, we had never been caught doing this. So, emboldened, we decided one afternoon when at my friend Mark’s house that he should steal his dad’s car. This was a big, golden-brown British Leyland Princess which Mark had been shown how to drive by his dad, although admittedly only for 50 yards. His mum and dad were away for the weekend, and Mark was being checked on by his older sister, but was basically left to his own devices. After some thought, we all decided it would be great to drive around the estate in the car.

      Mark was a bit less enthusiastic, I recall, but, being egged on by the four of us, he capitulated. He took the keys, and off we set. He reversed safely enough and, despite it being the middle of a Saturday afternoon, none of the neighbours seemed concerned when five 14-year-old boys started driving down the street.

      Mark managed to get over two relatively busy junctions and had avoided knocking over any number of kids playing in the street before the car suddenly stopped. He tried to change gear but nothing happened.

      We were all sitting in a stolen car in the middle of the estate when a man in a van stopped and asked what was wrong. Not, ‘What are you lot doing in the car?’ but, ‘What’s wrong?’

      With his help, it was decided the clutch had gone and that the only way back to the house was to push it. A journey of 10 minutes’ driving is a lot longer when four teenage boys are pushing a car steered by their friend, and it may have been during it that the penny dropped in my head: ‘My mates are idiots. I should be trying to get girls’ bras off instead.’

      I really was no big hit with the girls. I was never actually shy, just unsure. I understood boys. You knew what made each other laugh (farts), and you knew that if someone was annoying, then eventually someone else would punch them. It was never the same with girls. They could say something to me, and I would just be stumped. I would just think, ‘Laughing must be wrong as nobody has farted, and punching them is out of the question.’

      I eventually got over my awkwardness and was able to have a few dalliances, before going steady with a girl called Denise. She had hair that was a mixture of red and auburn, a great athletic figure from playing school hockey and netball, and a wicked sense of humour. And I am grateful that during my later teenage years, when I could have been doing other things, she allowed me the opportunity to fumble my way to manhood with her.

      We went out with each other in that typically teenage on-off fashion for years; people assumed that we would one day get married. That is what you did on the estate: if you found someone who was good enough, it seemed to make sense to get married. I remember my dad even asking me once if I thought I would marry her. I was 17. As the father of 17-year-old boys of the modern era, I am not sure I could even ask them to commit to taking the dog for a walk without expecting a phone call telling me the dog had ran off and it was my fault because I asked them to do it in the first place.

      The reality was that I wanted something more than the estate had to offer; I just wasn’t sure what it was. But I was about to find out.

       CHAPTER 6

       ALL I LEARNT IN SCHOOL

      I left school for the first time when I was 16. I had gained six O-levels and four CSEs. At that time, the education system was split between those who teachers thought were academically capable enough to achieve an O-level, and those they considered ‘less able’, who sat CSEs. I fell into the bracket of pupils who were regarded as a little bit of both. In Physics and Maths everyone sat the same examination, and you were either awarded an O-level or a CSE. This worked out well for me, as I achieved an O-level in both. I doubt that was what my teachers expected of me, particularly as the only thing I can remember about physics was setting my hair on fire trying to see if the central hole in the Bunsen burner continued up through the flame. If you’re interested, it doesn’t. And I think СКАЧАТЬ