I learnt to read at Balshaw Lane Primary School in Euxton. We used small cards with our first words written on them as some sort of memory aid. I think we were given five new cards to learn each day. I found 5 words a day frustratingly few, but thanks to Socialism we had to work at the pace of the slowest child. To relieve this frustration I used to make my own cards. I used the 1977 Star Trek Annual as a source of new words, which I still have at home. Whoever bought it for me was extremely irresponsible as it was much too frightening and violent for a 4 year old . The point of the story is I learned words like ‘Warp’,’Energize’ and ‘Spock’ at about the same time as I learnt ‘Tree’,’Dog’ and ‘Car’.
(2) Fritz and the Shiny Red Car
I was about four or five. Anyway, we'd moved to Germany and I had recently learnt how to write. I was on my way home from the shop. My slave-driver father had sent me out alone in a foreign country, because he refused to get up off his big fat arse and buy his own sweets. At this age I had a feeble grasp of what was right or wrong. I stopped by a red car and picked up a small stone and etched my name and address several times into the bodywork. I walked off, not giving the matter any further thought. Later that evening a German called round in the very same red car. He seemed angry. It cost Daddy £200 in 1978 money to get it resprayed.
Your first bike was probably something a Boxer or a Tomahawk or if you were a bit older a Grifter or a Chopper. All products of good British engineering. Unfortunately I lived in Munich and had a German bike. It had unfashionable mudguards, a laughable tray at the back for shopping and interestingly could be folded in half. I learnt later that Bavaria had a ‘green’ transport policy and this feature was to make it easier to take the bike on the city’s extensive tram network, reducing reliance on the automobile. Anyway, I was told by my Mother always to use the subway when crossing the busy road between the playground and our house (only the Germans could be spiteful enough to build a playground on the other side of the trunk road to the houses).
On one occasion however, I saw a male caucasian adult waiting to cross the road on a bike and thought if I closely followed them, it would be safe. I rode up behind him and waited. He suddenly burned off and I followed, trusting his judgement. At some point during the crossing a lorry drove between us. I careered into the lorries back wheel and was sent flying in the air. I sustained a few cuts and bruises when I landed, but essentially I was OK. Unfortunately, my bike was not so lucky. It was mangled by the lorries big crushing tires and I started crying. Though hardly a Chopper, that bike was my only companion on the hostile streets of South Western Munich. I was upset for about another two weeks. Curiously, it never crossed by mind that I could easily have been killed and was lucky to be alive.
I was in the dining hall at St. Laurence's Primary School, queuing up for dinner. I became frustrated by our schools communist methods; it being against some gayboy rule to kick and beat weaker children out of the way to get served. My sister was sat down nearby eating and looking satisfied with herself. Though I am quite endeared to her now, this was not the case in the early eighties, when she wore pig tails and ra-ra skirts. She made some sneering remark and began to mock me in front my class mates. I could not think quickly enough to respond effectively and started to sweat. I then cursed her quite loudly and a teacher, I can't remember her name, intervened. As I was being scolded I could see my grinning sister in the background, and red mist began to descend. I felt waves of anger rushing through my body and felt intoxicated by hatred. I felt all powerful and I didn't care if I lived or died. With new confidence I strode over to my 'would be comedienne' sister and brought my empty tray down upon her dinner. I felt close to ecstasy as I heard the sound of her plate being crushed.
I can't remember what the dinner lady shouted, but the sound of her voice caused my adrenaline levels to plummet. My new powers had deserted me when I needed them the most. I felt frightened and alone. I panicked and ran out of the dining hall (also used as a gym, theatre and discotheque), down a corridor, where if it weren't for a deft body swerve I would have collided with Mr. Fairhurst, the head master, and out of the school. Fairhurst shouted something unintelligible at me, but he was old and far too frail to give chase. He was mocked by his pupils for his hairstyle, which was very similar to that of balding snooker ace Ray Reardon. I then ran home and hid in the garage until my Mother came home from work four hours later.
The school's teachers were quite worried, and all the pupils had the afternoon off to try and find me. It was snowing heavily that day, and 'finding me' involved having snowball fights and generally having a good time. When I went back the next day I was a hero, for I was responsible for everyone's enjoyment the previous afternoon. Unfortunately, my Father insisted I accompany him to visit Fairhurst at his Euxton home and apologise to the sickeningly spineless fool. The teacher who had scolded me origionaly, felt guilty, she though if I was found dead it would be her fault. According to my mother, the woman was hysterical enough to believe the worst and was bawling her eyes out for two hours. Ha, ha, stupid bitch! Curiously, my mother didn't seem alarmed in any way and when she discovered me in the garage, simply shrugged her shoulders and went to make me a cup off tea. As for my sister, well her time would come.
I was around ten or eleven, coming to the end of my time at primary school. Getting ready to go to bed, I slipped out of my white Marks and Spencer Y-Fronts. A robust under-trouser for the BMX generation. It wasn’t until secondary school and getting changed for P.E. became embarrassing, that I made the transition to boxer shorts. At some point along the journey to the washing basket, I noticed the white material about the gusset was horribly soiled. I felt unclean and worthless. I couldn’t let my Mother see how badly I’d treated the Y-Fronts she’d so kindly provided for me. I was desperate. I ran to my room, opened the window and threw the Y-Fronts as far into next door’s garden as possible. Despite being expert at mathematics, my judgement at this age was sufficiently poor to think I had dealt with the situation effectively. Satisfied, I forgot all about the episode; until two days later.
The doorbell rang. It was the woman from next door. I found this unusual, because though acquainted I knew my Mother disliked her and her husband, mainly because they were from the Home Counties and voted Conservative. I heard the murmur of conversation and the sound of the door shutting. My Mother entered my room, waving before her the soiled pants of two days ago. "The woman next door found these in her garden. And she said they’re dirty as well!" I felt sick. She demanded an explanation, but I could only wobble my lip pathetically. What I said next is an excellent example of how bad my judgement really was in those days. "They’re dirty because I rubbed a Mars bar into them."
During the first year at college I had a job washing up at the Euxton Coaching House with school friends Mark and Butler (who would later perform as DJ Chorley, bringing the frontiers of house to the University of Portsmouth Student Union). It was between Christmas and New Year 1988, and one of the chefs, Rob, was having a party. All staff were invited and my escort was young Mark. We went after work, wearing the same clothes we’d been washing up in for the previous five hours. My outfit was a stained white short sleeve shirt and white and blue tightly chequered chef’s trousers. To be polite we took a few cans of budget lager, possibly ACE. There were few players in the sub 50 pence lager market in those days, unlike today with thousands of appalling flavours at appealing prices; from the watery aluminum of Talon to the floor cleaner of Force 10. We arrived at about 11:30 pm.
We were the only 16-year-old lads there. There were a few teenage girls, but the majority were in their twenties. After a couple of cans of ACE, I quite hilariously started to tell everyone I was from space in a Scottish accent. Then this woman (I can’t remember her name, but she was about 30 and I got on with her quite well), irresponsibly began pouring me exotic yellow drinks which tasted of aniseed. I don’t have a complete picture of the events of the following hours, but I remember getting some waitresses to watch me eat a cigarette and drinking whisky straight from a decanter with people stood in a circle around me egging me on.
At some point I calmed down and went for a rest in Rob’s parent’s bed. My cohort Mark joined me in ‘Morcambe and Wise’ fashion and we started talking soberly about the issues of day. We were, of course, fully clothed. Unfortunately, during a sentence about the Berlin Wall I vomited a fowl smelling purple liquid into the bed. It being unpleasant to lie in a bed filled with vomit, Mark and I left Rob’s parent’s bedroom and continued our conversation in the corridor. Shortly afterwards, a fellow catering assistant called John Kennedy told me that Rob had found out about the purple bed and was seeking me with violent intent. Instead of apologising and offering to get the bed linen cleaned and then leaving, I ran into Rob’s bedroom and hid in his cupboard.
I don’t know how long I was in there, but was drunk enough not to feel foolish. After an interval I vomited again. Still purple, but this time it went all over Rob’s clothes. Understandably I didn’t want to stay in the cupboard, so I left and crawled underneath the bed to continue hiding. Here I was sick several times. I became aware of people looking for me and heard some commotion about the purple cupboard. When the room was next empty I attempted my escape.
The house was a bungalow, so my plan to climb through the bedroom window would normally be a sound one, but in this instance by body was full of coordination inhibiting toxins. Firstly, my vision was impaired and it took a long time for me to work out how to open the window. Then I had to climb upon the windowsill and simply fall out. I made several attempts, but whenever I managed to get one foot on the windowsill I pathetically lost my balance and fell back into the room. I heard some voices coming towards the room and panicked. I ran out of Rob’s bedroom, through the house, out of the front door and hid behind a conifer in the garden.
I naively thought I was well hidden, and when Rob shone a torch at the Tree and told me to come out, I thought he was bluffing; he couldn’t possibly know which tree I was behind. He then walked towards the tree and told me again. I gave myself up. He looked at me in disgust and threw a bag at me containing my sleeping bag and the clothes I was wearing before I started work at 7 ‘o’ clock the previous evening. He then told me to "fuck off home!" and went back inside. I was alone.
Instead of fucking off home, I walked about 10 yards, got into my sleeping bag, promptly fell asleep and woke up at 8 ‘o’ clock in the morning. However, my discomfort was not over, for I had shat myself in my sleep. I felt sober and was therefore more adept at dealing with difficult situations than I had been earlier. Luckily, everyone in the house was asleep and the front door was left open. I waddled to the bathroom, in the same way you waddle to the next cubicle if you are ‘caught short’ in a public toilet, washed my arse and changed into my other clothes. I still had two problems, the disposal of my severely soiled chef’s pants and I couldn’t find my shoes.
I walked into the street, anxious not to be noticed, carrying the chef’s pants. Short of a better solution, I sneaked behind one of Rob’s neighbours houses and put the stool laden trousers in a dustbin. I then went back to Rob’s house and saw Mark milling in the kitchen. He told me my shoes were in the same room in which Rob was sleeping. He said Rob was quite upset with me as I had ruined his party and I’d best keep out his way. I was feeling extremely embarrassed about my behaviour and would have cringed if I saw Rob. We promptly left and I cycled the four miles back to Astley Village with the metal of my pedals digging into my feet. It was the least I deserved.
My next shift was two days later. Rob was the first person I saw. He simply said "Twenty Pounds". I assumed it was to cover the cost of cleaning his clothes. It seemed reasonable. I had the money on me and paid him there and then, whilst apologising profusely. It took about a week before we were friends again.
I was with old school friends John Mantas and Andrew Roderick, much better known as Belstaff, named after the brand of a motor cycle jacket he bought and was widely ridiculed for when he was 16. We were on our way home after a night out in Chorley. At the time, 1994, Belstaff was learning the art of Budu-San-Jitsu two nights a week at All Seasons leisure centre. My knowledge of martial arts is limited, but I understand it was developed in Leyland and is based upon Thai boxing. Belstaff seemed keen to demonstrate the movements of Budu-San-Jitsu and did so at any given opportunity. Hardly Bruce Lee or even Dave Fit Finlay, on this particular evening Belstaff demonstrated his new skills by repeatedly kicking a bin outside the park gates.
We were approached by a group of three lads, who quite frankly looked like scum. One seemed to assume a leader role in the vein of Hannibal Smith. He had a pony tail, inoffensive in itself, but when combined with a polo neck and a 16-year-old’s attempt at a moustache looked decidedly tasteless. He was the spokesman of the group and his opening gambit was, "If you wanna twat fuck outta that bin, you’ve gotta twat fuck outta me first."
He continued his advance with his henchmen lurking in the background. Before I had time to respond he had punched me in the face. My lip was bleeding, cut by a ring of the type favoured by the underclass. I lunged at him and caught him with two clean blows to the head. He staggered backwards, giving me time to think. I had no truck with impromptu bare knuckle fist fights and realised I was going to get injured, even in the unlikely event of me winning.
I declared, "You’ve got a shit moustache" and ran, encouraging John and Belstaff to follow. Belstaff darted off immediately, but John, slightly further up the road, showed no intention of running as Belstaff and I sped past him. Moustache Man and one of the other lads pursued us for about 100 yards, before giving up and stopping. The third lad was assigned to John, more of him later. We carried on for another 50 yards and stopped outside the Polish Club. We could see Moustache Man further down the road. Belstaff suddenly snapped. "I’m fucking sick of this," he said, referring to the many times he had suffered at the hands of street thugs in previous years. He handed me his coat and glasses, and ran back towards Moustache Man, presumably to apply his knowledge of Budu-San-Jitsu. His vision impaired by lack of glasses, he ran straight past our attackers without seeing them and eventually ended up at the ‘Swan with Two Necks’ talking to a group of girls.
John had run into the park. His pursuer ran through the park gates, and being unsure of John’s bearing asked a small group of lads smoking at the war memorial for assistance. Fortunately these lads were friends of ours and in true slapstick fashion sent him in the wrong direction.
It was the summer of 1990, about two weeks after the world cup final. I was with five other friends travelling Europe on an Inter Rail ticket. We were on a night train bound for somewhere, probably Italy. About a week into the holiday I became unaware where we were going or where we had come from; it was always trains, unusual money and Africans trying to sell me hats. We had spilt up into two groups, one group were from Blackburn and our group, school friends Gavin, John and I, were of course from Chorley.
There were two bench-like seats in our carriage, each with room for three people sitting up. After some discussion, we decided that John and I were to top-tail on one seat while Gavin had one seat to himself. Before it was time to bunk down however, a gentleman called Ken from the Cameroon entered and sat beside Gavin. After a miserable conversation, consisting of us and Ken taking turns to name football teams and players, it became apparent Ken would be top-tailing with Gavin. John and I were most amused for he had the most disease ridden feet I have ever seen, which were eventually pressed against Gavin’s face.
Shortly after lights out, another person, who I didn’t get a proper look at, opened the door and dived into our compartment. He seemed to hit the floor quite severely, where he remained without a word of explanation. This unsettled me slightly, but I eventually fell asleep. However, losing consciousness in the presence of this man proved unwise, as I woke up with him rubbing his moustache against my face. I shrieked and he backed off. I grabbed my sleeping bag and ran into the corridor, where I successfully continued my nights sleep free from mustachioed perverts. The next morning I woke and went back in the carriage, and thankfully he had disappeared.
It was May 1997, a year after starting work for Digital Image Design. In that time I had made no friends at work and spent my dinner breaks alone, usually sitting in the park reading a newspaper. It was a hot day and I was enjoying the sun until I heard an American accent. "Do you mind if I sit here?" I did mind, but meekly nodded. I thought this slightly odd, but thought maybe the man was normal and this sort of behaviour was acceptable in the United States. He looked like he was in his late fifties, and had short grey hair and a Seamanic moustache. He was a jogger with an early eighties lean, wearing a vest and unfashionably tight shorts.
I tried to continue reading, but I found it difficult to concentrate with a stranger sat next to me. I resigned myself to talking to him. He told me his name was Bruce and he was from Alaska and in Warrington on business. Fairly interesting perhaps, but then he spoke at length about his keep fit program and I decided to escape. I told him I had to go back to work. He asked me where work was. I told him and Bruce just happened to be going to a gym in the same direction.
At some point on the five minute journey he asked me why I wore such a long sleeved T-shirt. His new line of questioning confused me. Then it became clear, "You’ll get a much better tan if you roll your shirt up. In fact why don’t you take it off?" I thought to myself, "How did this happen?" I managed to alter the subject to Alaska’s climate. As I was about to enter my work’s building, he gave me a sticker with his name and address printed on it and said "Give me a ring at the weekend. We’ll do some sports together." Then he left and I didn’t see him again until 6 months later.
I was 15 and the summer holidays had just started. Whilst prowling on the roof of the science block of St. Michael’s school one night, my friend John and I discovered a skylight which was easy to open and drop through. After a preliminary mission, involving the procurement of a few jars of flammable chemicals, I mentioned the entry point to another friend Adrian; who is now, incidentally, a lecturer in psychology. Always keen on adventure, he suggested we spend the night in school, in the same way other teenagers would camp in their back garden.
We both told our parents that we were staying at our fictitious friend Ian Warwick’s house. He was an imaginary friend whose name I lauded at any opportunity. "We played football today and Ian Warwick scored four goals", "Ian’s Dad is a helicopter pilot" or "those tapes are not stolen I borrowed them off Ian." Staying at his house made a convenient alibi whilst roaming the streets.
It was going to be a long night. I took tapes, Monopoly, cards, tea bags, pop, crips, milk, a pillow and a sleeping bag. John, with the fear of the law in him, declined the invitation to join us, although his did loan us his ghettoblaster. There were definite advantages to camping in a laboratory over camping in a field, such as a hot water machine and access to mains electricity.
It was about 11 pm when I dropped my rucksack through the skylight and clambered in. We were quite excited as we set about making the store room our own. We lay out our sleeping bags, plugged in the stereo and made a cup of tea. We proceeded to play cards and drink tea while Adrian played me his U2 tapes; it was what a beatnik might call mellow. Though by about 2 am the endless knockout whist, a game more suited to a larger number of players, became tiresome.
We were in no mood to sleep and wandered about the science block collecting objects to take home with us. After an intensive investigation of our immediate surroundings, we picked up the ghettoblaster and set out to explore the whole building. We walked through the design faculty, through both the entrance and dining halls and into the assembly hall. Whilst casually waving the ghettoblaster around, I was disturbed to notice a group of policemen outside shining torches into the building.
Unsure if we had been spotted we ran, via a series of fire doors and corridors, into the gym. There was a small room at the far end of the gym where crash mats, trampolines, javelins and other sports hardware was stored. We went in. There was no where else to go. We went in and hid in the vaulting horse. No alarm had sounded, and I realised the school must have a hi-tech security system which alerted the police directly. Curiously we never considered that the school might be alarmed, our preparations being more concerned with snacks and entertainment.
After 5 minutes of being cramped, Adrian became uncomfortable and changed his position within the horse. Unfortunately during his movements he also pressed one of the ghettoblaster’s play buttons and we began to loudly introduce the police to the bitching sounds of Wasp. This outburst made it a simple matter for the police to locate us. Shortly afterwards they had the horse surrounded and ordered us to come out.
We were read our rights and asked where we had broken in. Adrian told the police about the skylight, and was ordered to show them where it was. I was bundled into the back of a car and driven straight to the police station; a building which won prestigious architectural awards in the 1960’s, possibly from the same people who thought Blackburn’s infamous indoor shopping centre was a good idea. Whilst being manhandled into the car, I noticed Oddjob, the school caretaker, looking distinctly rough after being dragged out of bed to unwillingly assist the police. Unfortunately he recognised me and provided the school authorities with the names of the intruders.
I was given a cell to my self. It was my first time and I was quite upset. After about 10 minutes the door unlocked and I saw Adrian standing in the corridor. We were led to an interview room, where a police officer was staring incredulously over a collection of objects, including a teapot and a Monopoly board, trying unsuccessfully to associate them with the crime. We explained our story, occasionally referring to the objects, that we were basically nice kids on some Famous Five style adventure. Through the session the interviewing officer repeatedly made remaks such as "I don’t believe it" or "In all my years on the force I’ve never seen anything like it." Reluctantly, he realised the evidence bore no other explanation. No charges were made and our parents were called in.
Much like Oddjob, my Mother didn’t appreciate being sent for by the police at 4 am on a weekday and she didn’t speak to me for the next month. A few days later I made a vein attempt to court her favour, by stealing a large number of strawberries from a nearby farm and presenting her with a bag of fruit on her return from work. The backfired somewhat as she became very cross, indicating the strawberries were all mouldy and there was no room in the fridge.
My punishment from school was minimal and consisted of a telling off on my doorstep from Watson, my head of house, who I was never able to take seriously. Watson was Scottish and wore a moustache, though it was for other reasons I lacked respect for him.
However Adrian was a Proctor and therefore didn’t get off so lightly. The Proctors were an elite group of pupils chosen to represent their school to the public. They were highly regarded by teachers and were distinguished by their ties. The school had great hopes for Adrian and from their perspective the sun’s rays reflected brilliantly off his ginger flick. They were extremely disappointed and his proctorship was revoked.
Other Stories:Geoffrey's Shaft, Blackburn Spaceman