Languishing at the back

OK - back to the s**t at sports issue....

I've already mentioned that there were, luckily, one or two teacher's at our school who weren't the architypal gym teacher nazis.  There was one or two (striding around in their very short shorts, whatever the weather, their office fun of fawning girls) but they weren't the entirety.

Mr R took pains to encourage and praise effort as well as success and I'll always remember him for that (as well as his terrible history classes - but never mind).

Football was a joke for me.  I was 'encouraged' onto the junior school team as well as the cubscout (and scout) team.  And I was terrible!  No co-ordination.  No skill and risk-taking bravery.  Truly terrible.  I was much more keen to be the sub than be on the team.  My Dad always used to come and support me.  Poor Man.  Must have been so embarassed.  I particularly remember by brother pasting mud onto me at half time to make it look as if I'd seen some action.

And, of course, our school majored on football.  When you've got three games slots a week you're going, therefore, to end up doing a lot of football.

And cross-country running (languishing at the back).  And cricket (cowering in the nets).  And rounders (surprisingly good).  And long jump (ditto - occasionally).  And trampolining (OK once - the second time, disasterous).  And gymnastics (can't touch my toes - still can't).

And golf was my Dad's game.  God I tried.  Lessons.  Going around the nine hole course on my own whilst my Dad did his 18.  Caddying.  The pitch and putt at weekeneds with S.  The occasionally surprising, soaring shot on a golfing holiday in Scotland.

As we got older we were allowed more choices as to what sports we could 'specialise' in. I, with all the other "C Team"ers, chose Hockey - out of sight at the other end of the school's site.  G and I later chose squash (the court without the viewing gallery).  I thought I got rather good at that.  Until I played someone who wasn't G.

It just wasn't for me.  Didn't bring out a competitive spirit or a passion or a sense of potential collective achievement.  I appreciate, of course, the importance of good health and letting off steam.  I recognise the fact that presenting kids with the opportunities with which to make future, informed, choices is important.

I was getting on the tube the other day after having gone to the theatre, on my own.  I was blissfully happy after having had a life-enriching experience that connected with me on so many levels.  The tube was irritatingly packed.  With football fans on their way back from a match.  I wanted to ask one of them - "why?"  "what is it about the way that you've spent your evening?"  "how could it possibly be better than the way i've spent mine?"

I didn't of course.  I respect their passions and their choices.  I guess.

The Last Waltz

Ok - so the last band tour.  I'm sure I've skipt a whole bunch of angst that I should have covered off in great detail - but let's just say that I'll return to it.

Holidays before I was fourteen were, of course, family affairs.  The Lake District, Scotland, Wales, The Norfolk Broads.  None of them were terrible and, indeed, I have many fond memories from many of them.  Bizarrely, one particular memory pertains to spending the majority of the week in the back seat of the car, reading the novelisation of the TV Series "V".  It was brilliant.  Another one  is about my brother being very sick from a stomach flu, half way up a mountain.  And another is ENTIRELY about my brother hitting me very hard in the face because I splashed him with water when we were out in a rowing boat.  There was something in me that felt his reaction was somewhat disproportionate.

My brother and I always bought my Mum and Dad a present to say thank you for a lovely holiday....

And then it was all about school trips.  The first one was bizarre - run by the biology teacher, the deputy head and a few others - basically because they fancied a trip to the south of france.  I have some good memories of that trip but it was a very eclectic mix of students - including, thankfully, the few friends that I'd accumulated by that point.  The pictures are....spotty.

And then there were band trips.  And they were ALL about drinking.  The 'gigs' ranged from the side of a municipal swimming pool, through to a local music festival.  From a local church that made us, acoustically, sound AMAZING, through to legoland (OK - we didn't play there - but we went there).

There's a TV series, I can't remember which, that warns parents that 'the band kids' are the randiest of the lot.  In many respects this was true.   But the drinking.....

A wonderful memory of the born again Christian horn player playing drunked peekaboo behind a curtain in the hotel's bowling alley.  Disappearing down the back alley to a bar where they had no hesitation of serving us, out of sight of the teachers.  Holding hands with E.  Falling out with E when the trumpet player professed his attraction to her and she didn't want to desert me (I was fine).  He turned out to be a stalker of the highest order.  A professing her attraction to me and E not forgiving her for the duration of the Summer.  G, we've now discovered, coming out to Mr K, in the dead of night, sitting on bench, looking out at the lake.  Me and G taking it in turns to jerk off in our shared bathroom - very drunkenly.  Me and G secretly having a crush on the little trumpet player, L (not the stalker).  Carrying my musical instrument along the side of a boat whilst under the influence - I still have flashbacks (inaccurate) of it falling in.  The terrible terrible food.   Becoming friends with the music teacher's younger son (bit of a crush there too - turned into a great friendship).

And the last trip.  It was all over.  The music teacher let a few non-musical friends come along too.  One as a singer (she is, in fact, a great singer - but hers and my rendition of 'it's a quiet thing' on the boat on the way home was catastrophic).  One as a roadie (hahaha) who lived up to roady-isms of boozing and shagging.  And it was carnage.  Final flings were had.  The beach was strewn with bottles and weeping, drunken teenagers.  The concerts were inconsequential.  The boat journey home saw us staying up pretty much all night, savouring the last night of nights.  It was awesome.

And then the coach had pulled up on the school playing fields which were parched from a long, hot summer.  We unloaded our bags and instruments and said our goodbyes.  I really wanted to say something grateful and meaningful to the music teacher.  But I fluffed it - something about her having taught me so much more than music.

I like to think that she didn't say much because she was choked.  She might have just thought I was an idiot.

I think, on reflection, that it was the former.

Gregarious Lonerism

I've already mentioned how my 'default position' would be one of 'loner-ism' but that didn't stop me having a number of great friends, many of whom I still value today, many years later.  It also didn't stop me being a 'lonely loner' at times.

My satisfaction with my own company was often read by others as aloofness.  In some respects I'm sure that it, in fact, was.  Did I think that I was better than them?  In honesty, I'm sure I did.  Did I yearn for their company and what they did?  Rarely.  Although the parties and nightclubbing were a source of fascination and, at times, jealousy, when I did get invited I'd more often than not start wanting to go home at around the 9 o'clock mark, having exhausted whatever real or feigned interest I might have had in those present.  And when a party did pass muster in my view it was usually one with four or five people present rather than forty or fifty ('that's not a party' I heard cry - I disagreed).

I was often described as gregarious and, indeed, a flirt.  When circumstances required it I was the life and the soul of the party, caring more about the enjoyment, satisfaction and entertainment of others than for myself.  That doesn't mean that  I didn't, in fact, crave solitude and my own company simultaneously.  That doesn't mean that I didn't find the effort exhausting.  And that doesn't mean that I didn't (and don't) find the lack of other people caring about my happiness or satisfaction irritating.

To my friends, my bouts of lonerism and, indeed, aloofness was equally baffling.  At the time of various school trips, when a group of friends was well established by then, my propensity to (rather dangerously, perhaps) go on excursions entirely alone must have been strange.  And 'Don't complain that no-one cares about you when you don't tell us when something's wrong' was an occasional complaint as well.
 
Drinking helped.  Indeed I started early.  Mum and Dad were enlightened in that respect - working on the basis, I'm sure, of preferring to have youthful inebriation conducted in the safety of one's home rather than at the bustop at the end of the road.  I'd always, however, be the first to return to the bar (needing more to drink and/or having had a conversation reach its natural conclusion).  I'd always find myself exhausted after a particularly gregarious night - a combination of 'putting out' and being, of course, hung over.

What a sight we must have been though - an enormous gaggle of 17 year-olds, lying in the garden of the local pub - all as p***ed as each other.  One thinks that it's only today that large social gatherings are successfully conducted - thanks to social media.  In those days we spent hours on the phone assembling the necessary masses.  Highly successfully.

Years and years later, an esteemed professional psychologist on meeting me for the first time said,

"You need to be constantly 'on' - charming, gregarious and cheerful - for your job"

"I bet you'd rather be enjoying your own company wouldn't you?"

How did he know?

William Hartnell. Patrick Troughton. Jon Pertwee. Tom Baker. Peter Davison. Colin Baker. Sylvester McCoy. Paul McGann. Christopher Eccleston. David Tennant. Matt Smith.

I have, of course, got a variety of other unhealthy obsessions in my back catalogue.

Saturday lunchtime wrestling was a staple of most kids' lives in the 70s.  It was an absolute, un-negotiable feature in our household.  Dad would get home from golf with sticky buns and the TV would go on (the cleaning will have been done by this point....).  No-one didn't know who Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks were in those days.  ('easy...easy...easy').

Later in life, wrestling re-reared its head in the form of WWF.  Now - I blame L entirely for this - his house had cable and, all of a sudden, Wrestlemania and Royal Rumble were late teens (and beyond!) obsessions.  I did profess to prefer The Undertaker.  But, let's face it, any muscle-y man in pants was going to get my attention.  Including twice (or, indeed, three times) live.  Whilst at University.

Star Wars.  Still is.  I can still remember seeing the film for the first time.  Down on the South Coast, co-inciding with a visit to the grandparents.  I can remember my Mum (or perhaps it was, in fact, my Dad) saying, as they fastened my seatbelt in the back of the car afterwards saying "you've still got stars in your eyes, haven't you?".  I would have been no older than five.  I can definitely remember.

Figurines.  AT-ATs. X-Wings.  Snowmobiles.  Land Cruisers.  Canteenas.  Ewoks (whatever).  Lightsabers.  Millenium Falcolns.  Christ - it must have cost a fortune.  You wouldn't see me for HOURS.  Setting up scene after scene in my bedroom (my TINY bedroom) for reinacting all the way through or for just looking at, day after day.  Videos (I kept count of the times I watched the first film recorded from the TV - well over fifty in the first instance).  Directors Cut.  Wide Screen Version.  DVDs.  I'll still watch it, happily, today.  It will be no surprise to the reader that I, too, consider the three prequels to be pointless disappointments.  Star Wars is film and story-telling perfection.  Good vs Evil - OK it's been done before - but never better.

And Doctor Who.  It was "Queer as Folk" that revealed to me that Doctor Who is, for some reason, a particularly gay obsession.  I most definitely teared up when Vince asked Stuart whether he knew all the names of the Doctors in order.

William Hartnell.  Patrick Troughton.  Jon Pertwee.  Tom Baker.  Peter Davison.  Colin Baker.  Sylvester McCoy.  Paul McGann. Christopher Eccleston.  David Tennant.  Matt Smith.

Doctor Who is also story-telling perfection.  No matter what people have said in more recent times about things getting too complicated, it's successful because it's not - The Doctor, The Tardis, The Sonic Screwdriver, The Companion(s) and, of course, the Daleks.  You don't need to know anything else.

Yes - i know - I'm nearly 40.

i wanna live for ever.....

I've aleady mentioned that "Fame" was my film of choice and, as ever, it was a wildly inappropriate choice for a ten year old - swearing, nudity, grainy 80s arthouse-y-ness!

But the TV show was a different story entirely.  And the records.  And the multiple viewings of the Albert Hall concert on video.  And attending the "Dance into Spring" Tour at Earl's Court.  With Mum and Dad.

There are a variety of obvious reasons why a kid of my disposition will have found something to love in "Fame".  The wish-fulfillment of going to a school where loving music wasn't an unusual activity or a sign of weakness.  The dancing and singing in the cafeteria.  The dancing and the singing in general.

But the music was great.  It really was.  I wore the LP all the way through, wildly conducting to "We've got the Power" and "Desdemona".   I watched the "High Fidelity" sequence a hundred times.  I sang and cried to "Starmaker" even more times.

I, of course, wanted to be Bruno - the keyboard playing composer with the wild, shaggy hair.  But I wanted to be with Danny.  The wisecracking italian comedian and actor.

I still love it.  Its energy, passion and its message has been, in part, replicated in 'Glee'.  But it was the original and the best.

Lee Curreri is still a musian.  Debbie Allen directs.  Gene Anthony Ray is gone.  And Carlo Imperato is, I think, a hot tub salesman.  *sigh*

Oh Captain My Captain!

I had a variety of utterly inspiring teachers at school and, indeed, some slightly less inspiring ones too. 

Mr K introduced me to opera - something I will be eternally grateful for.   He let younger students join the Sixth Form Theatre Club for when the trips were to ENO and not to the West End.  My first experience was therefore Jonathan Miller's Rigoletto and the rest is history (he says, listening to Tristan right now).

Mr W was an extraordinary character.  He claimed to have been a judge on Come Dancing before his teaching days and, indeed, his choreographic abilities were brought into play for a school production or too.  For some reason he was profoundly unpopular with other members of my class - something that I found particularly baffling.  I was even told by a member of IR (she knows who she is) to stop smiling (and most certainly laughing) in his classes.  For goodness sake.  He had an extraordinary way of  encouraging a particularly writerly style in his students (you were guaranteed a higher mark if you addressed your essays to "My Dear Reader").  He did make a gaff or two though.  One was an extraordinary outburst at the class at the evils of sharing and copying work.  He didn't realise that a student had, by mistake, submitted their essay twice and that's why there was a certain familiarity around the content he was reading, the second time around.  The other one was slightly less forgivable.  He came in one morning extolling the evils of his trip to the theatre the night before - he'd never been more upset or offended - he'd been to see La Cage aux Folles.  Oh Dear.

He'd always promised a school trip to Petticote Lane to sample the best salt beef sandwiches in London.  It never happened.

Miss C was ALL about Anthony & Cleo - her 'friends, romans, countrymen' was awesome - as was her advice on how to handle the difficulties I was having with conducting the junior girls choir!  Miss L made maths achievable.  Mrs W was an inspiration to my music-making and, indeed, to my life in general.  Mr B got EVERYONE an "A" in Economics thanks to his particular techniques of fear and learning the factors for demand by rote.  Miss J took an extraordinary dislike to me and made it abundantly clear after a school play rehearsal once - not entirely fair I felt (and still feel now).  Mrs F put me on stage and made me dance - she wrote me the nicest card before opening night, commending (no doubt, inaccurately) my comedic skills.  She also was the only teacher to give me a detention (for bunking off games to rehearse a scene from Pygmalion) which she later retracted (when the rendition of said scene was so AWESOME no doubt!).  Mr R put me off History for ever (until most recently) but took pains to develop and commend even the most untalented of sportsmen (now - how often do you hear that about games teachers!).  Although Miss J wasn't necessarily an inspiration she most certainly provided the comedic moment of the year when she locked S in the stationary cupboard for bad behaviour - something that still gets mentioned every now and then these days!

Mr B - Headmaster.  An extraordinary man who made a suburban comprehensive school into a centre of excellence and achievement.  His standards were incredibly high and he took personal pains to encourage and enforce them.  From standing up when a teacher enters the room, to school uniform standards, to a sense of faith, to discipline, to a love for Geography, through to knowing exactly what was expected of you.  The best.  Soon after I left, he fulfilled his dream (I imagine it was his dream) to become Headmaster of an eminent school in London.  He also fulfilled his dream of marrying his Deputy Headmistress, Mrs P (later, of course, Mrs B).  He died tragically soon afterwards from leukemia.   Terrrible.  Tragic.  I'll always remember him.  Rest in peace.

Gone.

There are, very sadly, a variety of people from school life who are now no longer with us.  Such is the statistical inevitability of getting older.  The first was L who died suddenly soon after having left junior school.  I remember her as being one of the girls who 'acted' a scene to Joplin's Entertainer as I played it in the school hall.  Another was A who died of cystic fybrosis.  I remember him from being in the 'support team' on a scouts bike ride to Belgium.  Another was K who died in the Hillsborough Disaster.  We weren't friends and I have a variety of regrets about the way I felt about him before it happened.  I remember him - the day after it happened there was a band practice at school and there were many many tears.  We only just got through 'you'll never walk alone' at the memorial.  Another was R.  A fellow Star Wars nerd and a lumbering but jovial presence.  He died of cancer quite recently.  Another was C.  She played the bassoon and was a leading, friendly figure from school musical life.  She and I went to the same Uni.  I remember how pleasantly surprised I was when she came running over and hugged me on my first day.  We went to a James Brown concert together.  Another was K.  She was a crushes' best friend, intelligent, well liked and bafflingly dating J - the most datable guy in the year - they ended up marrying and having children.  She died suddenly and was remembered fondly at a school reunion a few years ago.  The crush can't go and see the children - they remind her too much. 

So sad.   Such is life.  Good to remember.  Right to do so. 

A friend, S, dated two of the girls on this list.  In a lighter moment he was wondering whether he was the 'black widow' of the year!