Happy?

I find it difficult to evaluate whether I was happy in that first year.  I know that there were times when I wasn't - most notably when lying, cold in my bedroom on a Wednesday afternoon, smelling the cabbage-like emanations from the cafeteria below, listening to yet another godawful rehearsal by the Hall houseband, having nothing better to do and nowhere better to go.  I know I wasn't during the third 'getting to know you Ball' of the first week when the music was too loud to get to know anyone whatsoever and  the people I'd decided to get to know better left one by one.  I know I wasn't when wondering how on earth I was going to get out of living with the people on my corridor in the second year.  I know I wasn't when I was letting L down for not being as into her as she was into me.  I know I was most certainly not happy when a lecturer gave me the much-dreaded first presentation of the year as an assignment - he'd taken an immediate dislike to me - it was on Saussure.  I know I wasn't happy with the morons who 'ran' the JCR of my halls of residence - with their aloofness and fratboy humour and behaviour.  And I know I wasn't happy on the occasions when I arrived back at my ugly, souless building, and looked up and sighed.
I don't measure my happiness or lack thereof by the intellectual stimulation that I was receiving - as we will discover, the intellectual stimulation that was being transmitted from the English faculty was the least most important aspect of my university life - either in terms of happiness or any other deciding factor.

And I know I wasn't happy when during a break between terms, E turned up to the local pub and 'caught' me smoking - she fled back to her car saying that I should go back to my 'proper' friends and my cigarette and that she'd never felt more lonely in her life.

But I know that I treated my unhappiness with a large dose of detachment.  There wasn't any penchant, any more, for sitting in bathrooms with handfulls of pills.  And I know that there was a large amount of happiness (and booze) to contend with too.

 
I know I was happy being the 'life and soul' of my 'gang' on my floor.  I know I was happy meeting new people - people who surprised my old friends that they were my friends now too.  I know I was happy being the first in line for the bar of an evening, with the bonkers Welshman from my corridor in tow.  I know I was happy doing the 'usual' student things of fancydress three-legged pubcrawls and having friends to stay in their droves (sleeping on the floor in their masses and marvelling at the 'animal house'  nature of proceedings in some quarters).  I know I was happy playing music, going to gigs, eating at Fatty Arbuckles and staying out until dawn.  I know I was happy on RagRaids - being one of those ghastly tin-rattling students in white coats and getting plastered afterwards.  I jogged, I went to aerobics (I went to hospital after one particular session!).  I know I was happy, going to the movies in the debating chamber, making new discoveries and never forgetting "Thelma and Louise".  I know I loved singing in the choir, on occasions, and falling asleep in my music appreciation classes.  I know I was happy, cycling (on the occasions I cycled and didn't leave my bike to rest in the shed) down the hill from campus to the halls, sometimes with someone sitting on the parcelrack.   Sometimes, in the middle of the night after a midnight showing of "The Exorcist".

I'm sure, on reflection, that I was happy.

Thinking about girlfriends

What WAS I thinking?  I wouldn't say that the answer to that was 'nothing'.  And I wouldn't say that I was trying to shut my true sexual self into a box (or indeed a closet).  In many respects the hard work of the previous years (coupled with the social awkwardness and ostracising that goes with that) had resulted in me being somewhat asexual.  But I do clearly remember waking up towards the end of my first term thinking - 'I really should do something about this - I really should do something about this this year'.

 

I had had, as we know, some forrays in the world of girlfriend-dom.  Many with E (soft kisses, fumblings in cinemas and theatres) and some minor ones here and there in between.   I was convinced, at one point, that I was in love with A - something that notably resulted in a late night stroll in the neighbouring village, dressed as the Phantom of the Opera.  But now I was a grownup.   Now I was at university.  It was time for business.

The two notables were L and A.

In the meantime there was a strange non-starter with a couple of girls from the neighbouring halls of residence - we'd spend a lot of time drinking together until G told me that there was more than drinking on their minds and it all came to a rather argumentative halt.  My brother thought that it was all about C - the girl upstairs, who remains a friend.  No.  Just No.  There were some strange arguments with R, now and then, when he moved in (systematically, time after time) on women I expressed only the vaguest of interest in.



L was an experience.  A friend of a friend.  Very blond.  Very good looking.  From Essex.  She was into me, I heard.  I thought I was into her.   Much excitment amongst the plain friends ensued.  A one night half-stand that involved no more than half naked fumbling and grinding ensued.  In the morning I said I wasn't so sure.  She said 'it's too late now'.  I started keeping my distance.  Big Time. I tried to gallantly improve things a week or so later.   She sensibly had seen the light and kept her distance in return.



A was a bigger experience.  A friend of a friend.  An unconvincing hippy (as I had become at the time).  Candles.  Tie-Die.  Dust.  Nose piercing.  She was into me, I heard.  I thought I was into her.  Much excitment from the mutual friend.  A lot of kissing.  A lot of pretending.  A one night half-stand that involved a lot of half naked fumbling and grinding.  A little more action this time.  But no more than a bit of over-enthuisastic mutual that ended quickly and stickily.  Yuck.  It really wasn't working for me.  A few days later, surprise suprise, she said that she wasn't 'feeling it'.  No Shit.  We stayed friends.  She ended up marrying a banker. 

I even came back to University after the Christmas break deciding that I was going to 'go for' either E or L (another one).  I went round to see E and she started telling me about a boy she was into - it wasn't me.  I went round to see L - see was fed up and going home that weekend.

The plain chums were very disappointed indeed.  And disappointment shifted into suspicion when I said that I wanted to direct a play.  A play called 'Bent'.

And I was still a virgin.

Finding Myself

In the first few weeks of University, I did enough 'finding myself' to last a lifetime.

Some of the time, I was in home territory - hanging out with the 'inbetweeners' and, dare I say it, leading the pack somewhat.  In that crowd I was, I guess, the most socially able and the better looking (the competition wasn't up to much) one.  And they were nice people - we were of a 'type' and I was neither excited nor bored by them.

 

Some of the time, I was learning how to sweatily mosh at Balls and social nights - pushing other sweary moshers around to the Wonderstuff and drinking enormous amounts of snakebite and black.

Some of the time, I was wide-eyededly learning a new language of intellectual cool - new bands, new poets, new writers, new film-makers - none of which was coming from my tutors.

Some of the time, I was back in my room, wondering what I was doing here, listening to the awful student indy band practicing in the bar underneath my window.

In the first few months, I did enough 'finding myself' to last a second lifetime.

The brown leather jacket from Wembley Market was unceremoniously ditched in favour of a trenchcoat from the A&N store.  Converse shoes and baggy jumpers were adopted, as were beads and a canvas bag. 

And I, of course, started smoking.  With a passion.  I'd always, long before this time, imagined myself as a smoker.  My constant running backwards and forwards to the bar ('does anyone want another drink - i do!') was indicative of a certain nervous energy.  But I can remember, the morning after having tried smoking for the first time, putting the packet in my bag and R saying "are you going to do it again?".  Hell Yes.  I'm a smoker now.

In that first year, I did enough 'finding myself' to last a hundred lifetimes and I got nowhere near finding myself.

I had a girlfriend.  I parachuted.  I bungy-jumped.  I went to Balls (E came to one) and Parties.  I queued for the phone.  I queued for the post.  I drank everything with 'black'.  I drank in a bar where people pee'd in the bin.  I never ate breakfast.  I made passionate friendships.  And equally passionate enemies.

They were great times.  They sucked.

Where to start?

The final farewell tour

The ensuing Summer was the longest 'farewell tour' on record.  As I said - send off after send off.  There must have been some part time jobs thrown in there but the send-offs were the focus of all available attention (my friends and I were the doyens of the Little Chef and Asda, on-and-off throughout our late teens - apart from S who found cleaning the milkshake machine so nauseating he didn't last the evening shift).

I'd also, of course, completed two major music exams, an "S" Level and achieved relative greatness in my "A" Levels.  The landmarks were coming along thick and fast.  I took my first overseas holiday that involved flying rather than a long ferry journey - Ibiza with E and her family.  I have two abiding memories of that trip.  Firstly - the fact that I was, in fact, quite subdued.   I was criticised quite heavily by E for being quiet - she'd had me invited as company - not as a mute.  Secondly - when I did finally break my silence it was to have an all-out row about the merits, or not, of musical improvisation over mastering the masters!  And thirdly - yes, thirdly - my first taste of sunstroke.  What fun.  It really was one of the best Summer holidays I'd ever had.

There was also, of course, a lot of drinking.  And curry-eating it seemed.  Everyone, all of a sudden, was into curry.  Eating at the High Street Curry House through to making one's own during the day with ingredients bought afresh (my parents kitchen was far from equipped for such things).

Everything was done as a group.  No evening or event could be conducted without an enormous round of decision-making phone calls followed by an assemblage of twenty or so.  And we weren't even the cool kids - goodness knows what organisational feats were required for the popular ones.  A notable excursion was a Rocky Horror escapade to London - notable for the lasagne I made before departing, followed by bumping into my piano teacher at the train station in full drag, followed by, somehow, being accompanied by someone from work who arrived fantastically drunk and who heckled in a variety of un-prescribed ways throughout.  He wasn't the individual from those holiday jobs who I remember best - I remember a slightly older, reddiesh-haired chap who I spent the afternoon cleaning a walk-in fridge with, signing tunes from "Blues in the Night" as we did so.  He leant me a video of the making of Les Miz.   Hhhmmm.

The dramas seemed to be over.  We were too old for the 'who's friends with who' debates.  There was no time left for brooding over which parties you were invited to and which you weren't.  There was too much water under the bridge for all these people of such an advanced age to begrudge perceived or actual slights.  It was all over.  This was just the rapturous, albeit brief, encore.

Before you knew it you were being dumped in a Halls of Residence on the south coast by a father who was quick to say that your room wasn't as nice as your brothers' and that he'd be off now.

You're not leaving me here!!

Interlude

When I began writing this (which I've maintained, I'll admit, only intermittently, from thereon) it was, in many respects, with the sole intent of 'putting to bed' some demons.  I felt, then, that the best way to dispell some rather mundane and seemingly insignificant aspects of my past that had continued to pop back up and haunt me at inopportune moments, was to write them down.  And it's worked.  That's not to say that life hasn't thrown a fresh set of rather mundane and seemingly insignficant moments to haunt me in the meantime but, for the time being, mission has indeed been accomplished.

I don't want writing this to become a chore and I certainly never intended (or intend) for it to become a public platform for my views on today or, indeed, yesterday.  But I've kind of enjoyed it and appreciated it being there.  I think I'll keep it up.

So much to come. So soon.

My final couple of years at school were, in many respects, the most formative.  It bemuses me to hear, from friends, how their own kids' experience of school is so similar to their own - how the early years were the best - how it was all about looking forward to going to school to see one's friends.  Not for me.

My final couple of years were where I started to find myself and find my place.  I knew that I wasn't going to get invited to the 'right' parties and I was perfectly comfortable with that.  I went to my friend's parties and they might not have been the 'right' ones but they were right for me - right for us.  We went to the pub - we drank too much for our age - we enjoyed the things we enjoyed and we enjoyed each other for who we were. 

I also found my academic niche.  I took a combination of A-Levels that I wanted to take and not a combination that my parents thought would get me a job (i.e. the combination my brother took) and I worked really really hard.   My memories of studying at that time involved the sheer terror of economics tests through to being the last one to bed, night after night, whilst I memorised everything from the latest maths formula, to a line of poetry, to a factor affecting Demand.  It was the hardest I'd ever worked academically (and ever would) and it was combined with two music grade 8's and a sense of willing myself to work harder and to test myself further - something that I still have (or indeed suffer from) today.

I also had a taste of Public School life - I had a significant birthday on a week's exchange to a leading private school - an unforgettable week of dishy posh boys, their preconceptions of us and their holidays in Kenya jet ski-ing.  The ones who exchanged in the opposite direction enjoyed themselves even more - apart from the one who went into self-imposed exile after a night out on the tiles that ended with him puking over my bedroom wall.

The final band-tour was carnage.  Tears and Tantrums in Denmark.  Youthful protestations of never losing touch, lives having been changed and never wanting it to end.

The final day of school was similarly strewn.  I was voted "most likely to become a member of the royal family".  An extended pub lunch was followed by a bladder-busting economics lesson.  And the final Summer was upon us.

How could it all be over so quickly?  How could we, all of a suddden, be in a place where we were having farewell party after farewell party?  How extraordinary to be given the most wonderful of send-offs by friend's parents.  How amazing to think that some of the most desparate of moments could have seemed so significant when compared to the terror and anticipation that awaited.

So much to come.  Thanks, in whole, to what had passed.

Go on.  Have a good cry.

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.