How Did All This Happen?

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 (#ulink_0b6d8486-5648-555c-9e36-420aa3ab15a2)

ALL I LEARNT IN SCHOOL (#ulink_0b6d8486-5648-555c-9e36-420aa3ab15a2)

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 it is fair to say that if you are stupid enough to set yourself on fire, you are lucky to get any qualification, let alone a coveted O-level.

At my school, this batch of O-levels was a fairly impressive figure. Within my household, school was something that we all went to but never really expected much from. My mum attended all the parents’ evenings, but the only time I recall my dad showing more than a passing interest was the summer I left.

‘You mum tells me you’ve done some O-levels.’

‘Yer.’

‘Good, hope you get them.’

That was that, and I guess that was all that needed to be said.

With what appeared to be a healthy clutch of qualifications, I was encouraged by the school to return to the sixth form. It had only just been set up, as whilst the total student population was pushing towards 2,000, they weren’t particularly successful in recruiting candidates for sixth form: there was just 11 people in it. But, after due consideration, I went for it.

This decision was based on the belief that if I were to gain A-levels I could do a degree, and if I did a degree, I could do a job where I would not need to get a wash when I came home from work, like Clive’s dad. In my mind, I could end up doing something interesting, taxing, and where you wore a suit: perhaps be a solicitor. No ordinary, boring solicitor, but more of a Petrocelli-type, caravan-dwelling advocate, the sort of lawyer who stood up for the innocent poor who couldn’t pay for justice. If you never saw the brilliant series starring Barry Newman, it is a great indication of how times have changed. Who would trust a lawyer now who lived in a caravan?

To be a lawyer was an impressive aspiration within my family, so I perpetuated the idea that I wanted to train to be a solicitor for many years. In fact, I’m sure there are still some family members who think it would have been better to have a lawyer in the family than a comedian.

However, my attendance at sixth form lasted all of one day. At that time, anybody staying on at school sixth form only received family allowance. This was the princely sum of £6.50 per week, as opposed to the £24 per week afforded by the government to all those on a Youth Opportunity Scheme. It was 1982, the recession was beginning to bite, and there were very few jobs around. But the government policy guaranteed all 16 to 18 year olds a place on one of these schemes.

Along with this, when I arrived at the sixth form wearing brand-new jeans, I was promptly informed that jeans were not acceptable so I would have to get some trousers.

At the time, Eddie had left home to take up residence in a flat in Southgate, an estate built to look like washing machines and with about as much practical application as a washing machine when it came to somewhere to live; Kathy was training to be a nursery nurse; and Carol was on a Youth Opportunity Scheme. My dad was trying to make a living making and selling wrought-iron furniture, such as telephone tables, which were such a staple of every home at the time. The idea was that when you used the phone you sat sort of side-saddle at the table. No wonder people of a certain age seem to droop as they get older – for a large part of their life they are having conversations on the phone at a ridiculous angle. My mum had a part-time job washing dishes in the kitchen of a factory canteen on the industrial estate. In essence, I didn’t feel I could return home and say to my mum I required new trousers. Instead, I felt I should be bringing money into the household and paying my way.

I had already applied for a job at the main factory in Runcorn: ICI. Along with my mate, Vic, I received a letter saying I had the got the job, to start in the second week of September. ICI was a huge chemical plant and the job in question was as a mail lad. That was the actual job description; it was a job for a ‘lad’ – girlies need not apply. And to my knowledge, none of them did. Most followed other paths, like my then girlfriend Denise, who trained to be a hairdresser. At least the old system made things very simple, as I’m sure if the ‘mail lad’ job were to exist at all in the world of emails it would be called something like ‘communications distribution individual’.

So I left school and went to work delivering mail at ICI. This involved getting a bus at 6.30 a.m. to arrive at work for 7. We would then collect the bicycles that were left at the security gate each evening and ride down the hill to the mail office. Getting up early was worth that ride downhill. Everyone should start the day going downhill on a bicycle. It was great fun – apart from the rain and snow and cold. OK, so it was great about eleven days of the year, but they were still great days.

We’d finish by 3 o’clock and, two nights a week, I would then go to night school in Widnes to study A-levels in English and Law. I may not have been in the sixth form, but I didn’t want my education to stop.

One day, on the way home from ICI, and while still wearing my steel-cap ICI safety boots, my ICI safety jacket and my ICI safety trousers, I called in to the school sixth form. It was there that I bumped into Mr Logan. Mr Logan had been my English teacher during my O-level period and would have been my A-level teacher had I stayed in the sixth form. He asked me how I was getting on, and I explained that I was working and doing A-levels at night school. He asked if I’d consider returning to the sixth form in January, but as I was then earning £42 a week, to leave that to return to a family allowance of just £6.50 a week didn’t seem viable.

In reality, I was beginning to have doubts about ICI and the future. I remember one day I fell into conversation at the plant with one of the men who always seemed to be walking around wearing boiler suits and hard hats, but never actually doing much. He was a friendly man in his late fifties with a warm face and a frame that suggested he enjoyed a roast dinner, and a disposition that suggested he had never seen how that roast dinner was made. He had worked at ICI all of his life.

‘You’ve got a job for life here, son,’ he informed me proudly, as he lit a cigarette, completely ignoring the No Smoking signs and the miles of pipework around his head carrying flammable chemicals. ‘Yes, son, no reason you won’t be taking your pension here.’

I remember looking around at the myriad pipes transporting chemicals all over the plant, and thinking, ‘Is this the view I have to spend the rest of my working life looking at?’

I think one of those great things about advice is that it is often given to make one point but ends up making entirely the opposite one. I could think of nothing worse than giving my life away so cheaply. Some people are lucky enough to find contentment in such security, but for me it felt as if someone was pouring water over my bonfire so the flames would not get too high. To stay in the same place of work all my life, get married, live in the same area, go to the same pubs, see the same faces until one by one we popped our clogs was like being handed a life of limitation that I just couldn’t accept. It’s a life that suits many people down to the ground, and in many ways I have always been envious of them. I never thought I was better than anyone else; I just knew I wanted something different. The problem was, I wasn’t sure what that was.

In the discussion with Mr Logan I had told him that the only option for me to return to full-time education of any nature was to take a part-time course at the local further-education college. If you were able to study part-time there, then you were able to claim unemployment benefits, which would mean £18 a week rather than £6.50. Still a long way behind the £42 a week I was currently earning, but at least a step to bridge the gap. The difficulty was that you were not allowed to study in school sixth forms part-time, only in FE colleges. If you were studying in a school, then you had to be classed as a full-time student for the school to receive the payment from the local education authority to cover your attendance. Mr Logan had said he would talk to the headmistress, Ms Philips, and see if there was any way around this.

I came into school a few days later to have a conversation with them both. The reality was stark and clear: I could not continue to do night-school A-levels one night a week over one year and realistically expect to pass. But, on the other hand, I couldn’t afford to leave my job. After some deliberation, it was agreed that the school would give me a letter that I could take to the unemployment exchange to say that I was studying part-time. Once they accepted this and guaranteed I would receive my dole, then I would leave my job.

The school was basically gambling that the unemployment office would not get in touch with the education services who, had they found out I was only studying part-time, would not have given the school the full remittance for my place, while Ms Philips would have faced serious questions about why she had told lies.

Everything was agreed and the letter was accepted. I was to return to school to do English and History A-levels, whilst I was to continue at night school once a week to study Law. It was a decision that would change everything I would do from then on, and it opened the door to a new world of potential opportunity.

What I had not envisaged was how this plan would sound to anybody else when I tried to explain it. The night that everything was agreed with the teachers, I went home to tell my mum and dad. I knew that they had been proud that I had been taken on at ICI as it offered one of the few permanent jobs for anyone my age in the area, but I assumed they would be pleased with my decision to leave, particularly once I had explained the financial side of things.

However, my announcement was met with blank stares. The kind of stares I would have expected if I had said I was going to join the Foreign Legion. Clearly what had left my mouth was the least expected thing in the world, and we sat talking until nearly midnight over endless cups of tea.

Although my mum was more supportive, my dad was clear and honest in his view. He did his best to convince me that having a job with prospects was so much better than taking a chance on doing A-levels and only possibly going to university. At this point, only my cousin Karen had gone to university, and it was generally accepted as something not for the likes of us.

Also, Karen was clever and known to be so. I was a boy and so intellect was balanced by my ability to carry things, and within our family history we were more greatly predisposed to the latter as a way to make a living. I knew I was going against the grain, but I also knew I had to tell them that this was what I wanted to do.

As I write these words now, it almost feels like I am talking about ‘coming out’ to my family that I read books. It wasn’t so dramatic; it was more that I was gambling on something better and needed them to see it too, although at the time A-levels appeared as useful as magic beans. There were no jobs, so why give up a perfectly good one in the hope of another one in the future?

I set my argument out as best as I could: I wanted something more than it appeared I could achieve if I did not change direction.

After hours of talking, my dad summarised it all in just one sentence: ‘I think it could be a mistake, but you have got to try. If you don’t try, you will always wonder what might have happened.’

And that was that. From that moment, I had their full support and they never questioned my decision. It was a great relief that they supported me: once my mum and dad get behind you, they are there for the long haul, and you can’t ask more of anyone.

So for the first time, but not the last, I left a well-paid job to try to achieve something against the advice of many, but with the support of those who mattered.

Eighteen months later, I was sitting in the passenger seat of a second-hand BT van next to my mum, as my dad was driving us north to what was then Newcastle Polytechnic. My mum could have said goodbye at home and let me travel up with my dad, or they could have put me on a train. Instead, they wanted to make the eight-hour round trip in a car none of us was sure could make it in order to say goodbye properly, because that’s what loving parents do. The van had been acquired a few weeks before, and it was another in the long list of unique vehicles my dad has owned. With a top speed of 50 mph, the journey took a very long time.

In actuality, it had taken 18 years. I was leaving home and saying goodbye to start the next stage of my life.