Autobiographical

Watching Elvis Costello and the Attractions at the Hammersmith Odeon in 1977 was no doubt one of the highlights of the period, going to the concert together with John and Chris. As well as the concert, we would hang out at each other’s places during holidays, play tennis where they both always won, or table tennis at my house where I would come out on top, or snooker at John’s abode where he naturally ruled the roost. Another friend of the time Andy Mangion would join us now and then. After studies at Cardiff University, he moved on to build up and run an empire of student properties in the city where he lives with his lovely partner Ruth and their two daughters. 

Back to school. I gradually recovered from the ignominy of coming bottom of the class or even the entire year as I started studying, albeit less than I should have. Other than languages (Latin and Ancient Greek, French and Business German), I enjoyed English and history, was less fond of maths and utterly hopeless at physics. In terms of sports facilities, other than outdoor football, the appearance of table football at school in the sixth form was a godsend. I was at one point included in the rugby team as a hooker owing to my height or lack thereof at the time for a Saturday match, but managed to limit to that experience to one trip, in part no doubt due to the expletives I unleashed in the scrum.

While that day was far from enjoyable, my worst experience occurred during a class on religious education when I was seated for some reason next to Chris C. I don’t want to disclose his surname here in case he has changed for the better. We had never been friends and didn’t mix at all. On that occasion he told me that one day when I was happy and married, he would find me, come to my house and shoot me. 

I was shocked at the time and still shudder to this day, remembering the moment when he looked deep into my eyes and emitted these words coldly, with an expression of utter hatred. Clearly his inexplicable and despicable conduct left an indelible trauma as I still check the front door on occasion more than 35 years later and have done so for decades. I am unable to fathom why anyone in fact would say something like that. Looking back, I can only assume that Chris C. might have been suffering some form of abuse at home or elsewhere, or had done so in the past. I am amazed at the cruelty of kids sometimes. 

Childhood mockery was irritating back then, but more indicative of the intellectual capacity or puerile state of the individuals concerned, who would blare out at me either “boom, boom”, or “Basil, Basil”. At the time Basil Brush, a show about a fox in a glove puppet with attendant ventriloquist, was popular in the UK. He would make what was apparently a joke and shout “boom, boom” to rub it in. Another series that was actually amusing  – Fawlty Towers about an unpleasant and rude hotel owner called Basil Fawlty played by John Cleese – also aired from 1975-79. He is constantly subject to onslaughts from his wife played by Prunella Scales, searching for him and saying repeatedly, Basil, Basil. Other nicknames would come after six months in Paris, another period of peripeteia. 

This photo is from some point in my adolescence. No date, I am afraid.