How Did All This Happen?

I was eight years of age and playing football on a field that we called the orchard. The sun was shining and we were getting to play out longer as spring was turning into summer, with the promise of light nights. Beside the patch of grass on which we were playing there was a fence, which I suppose would have been about eight feet high. Behind the fence there was a private garden full of trees. None of us had ever seen these trees bear fruit, but for some reason the area had become known as the orchard.

Ten minutes into the game, one of the boys kicked the ball and it flew over the fence. I volunteered to do the risky job of fetching it, thinking in my eight-year-old mind that I would be a brave hero if I got the ball back: a cross between Steve Austin and Evel Knievel.

I climbed the fence and jumped down to the other side. I ran quickly to get the ball so that I was not shot by the person who lived in the house – nobody to my knowledge was ever shot, but if you are eight years of age and on an adventure you may as well believe you might get shot for the sake of the excitement. It’s either that, or the possibility of being eaten by a dragon.

I retrieved the ball and kicked it back to my friends. I then began to scale the metal wire of the fence that surrounded the orchard, until I reached the top. The fence was made of hardwire, which was spiky at the top. I don’t actually remember what happened next, but I do recall the decision to jump the eight feet or so down to the ground.

Due to the fashions of the time, I was wearing flares that were so wide that the law of gravity would have allowed me to float down had I chosen to do so. However, I decided to jump, and the flares got caught on the spikes and made me fall the entire way: the first, but not the last, time I fell victim to fashion.

I woke up in hospital. I had damaged my kidneys to the extent that the doctors warned my mum and dad I may need a transplant. As it transpired, my kidneys were actually only bruised, and the doctor suggested I was lucky because, for a boy of my age, I had particularly strong stomach muscles: clearly, all of those obsessive sit-ups had not actually been wasted. I think it was perhaps the only time when something I had done alone in my bedroom had proved to be of any use whatsoever.

It was during this time, in Leighton Hospital near Crewe, that I recall for the first time being able to make people laugh. Living in Winsford and surrounded by the people who had been displaced from Liverpool meant that many on the estate sought to hold on to their Liverpool identity in the most obvious way possible: their accent. Similar to second-and third-generation Irish people in America, who become more Irish than the Irish, many on my estate became more Scouse than they would have been had they never left. I basically grew up around people all trying to ‘out-Scouse’ each other, and this made my accent extremely strong.

Many people think it is strong today, but it has become much more comprehensible with age as I have learnt the importance of being able to communicate in a way that allows people to understand you – not something you immediately comprehend as a child. So, when I was eight years of age and lying in a hospital bed, I became somewhat of a source of entertainment. One particular nurse would affectionately call me ‘Baby Scouse’ and would keep on asking me to say things for her amusement; things that more often than not would involve the word ‘chicken’. There is just something about the construction of that word which makes it sound funny when said in a Scouse accent. The nurse would even bring other nurses to my bed, so that I could say the chosen sentence of the day. It would be something like: ‘Why did the chicken cross the road? How do I know? I’m not a chicken!’ Two chickens in one sentence – comedy gold – and the nurses would start their shift with a giggle.

In some respects, this might sound inappropriate behaviour by nursing staff. These days there would be an enquiry, and I would seek compensation for the trauma and victimisation, as well as the anguish that has meant I can no longer eat chicken. However, I not only enjoyed the attention, I also enjoyed the sound of making other people laugh. And not only other people, but strangers, people who knew nothing about me till I said something funny. That sensation has never left me, and I feel blessed that it is now the way I make my living. The other thing that has been with me all my life is the enjoyment of entertaining nurses. However, that is not for this book. Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. Pass the chicken!

CHAPTER 4

SCHOOL AND A FRIEND CALLED KIERAN

When I was 10 we left Winsford and moved to a brand new council estate in Runcorn. I joined Murdishaw West Primary School, along with Carol, while Eddie and Kathy went to Norton Priory Comprehensive, a 20-minute bus ride away.

Eddie at this point was very close to leaving school anyway, which suited him, as he hated it. He left as quickly as he could at the age of 15, which is quite ironic in many respects because, as I write this, having already completed an art degree in his forties, Eddie is now studying for his GCSEs in English and Maths to enable him to train to become a teacher. Prior to that, his adult life had been spent as a professional footballer playing for Chester and Tranmere, and as a welder, both careers fitting my image of him more than standing at the front of a classroom. But my own career change, too, shows that anything is possible.

Kathy, on the other hand, did well at school and left to train as a nursery nurse, knowing straight away that it was her vocation. She has now spent much of her working life looking after young children in nurseries and schools. I’ve visited her current school a few times to do an assembly for the children, and it is obvious why many people choose such a profession. Kids can be wonderful things – particularly when you can say goodbye to them at 3.30 p.m. Carol also went back to university and gained a degree in Community and Youth Studies, which led her to working at the young offender’s institute at Appleton Thorn, the former open prison our dad had been in. She now works as my PA, which is probably more challenging at times than working with delinquents.

For me, a new school was always an opportunity to make new friends and have fun. Playing football is a great way to make new allegiances, particularly if you are quite good, and I settled into my new school very quickly. It reflected the estate that it served: it was new, fresh and seemed to suggest potential in the very fabric of its walls. The classrooms were bright, and it was the first time that a teacher had a real influence on me.

Mr Jameson was our classroom teacher. Like all junior school teachers, he was charged with teaching us everything, from spelling and painting to world geography and maths. He also ran the school football team. Primary and junior school teachers at that time were like the Google of their age; they had to have an answer for everything, and Mr Jameson managed it all with a degree of calm control.

In one game, we played a nearby school and we won the game convincingly. Mr Jameson’s unruffled demeanour was notable in its contrast with the lunatic teacher from the other school, who stood on the sidelines screaming till his face went red. We almost felt bad for the lads we were playing against but, as they were from the next estate, it was our duty to hammer them.

After the game, we shook hands and did the obligatory three cheers for the opposition, which I always thought was good but belonged more in a rowing club than between teams from two council estates. I recall Mr Jameson speaking quietly afterwards to the opposing teacher, whose face quickly cooled from red to a pinkish shade of pale. None of us heard what was said, but for a day or so around the school it was rumoured that Mr Jameson had said, ‘Sorry you lost, but you’re a prick.’

However, what made him have an impact on me was that he recognised that not only did I like to play football and do all the other things that boys do, but I also enjoyed writing poetry and stories, and he would often allow me to continue working on a story long after the rest of the class had moved on to something else. I always valued this encouragement, and he made me feel confident, even if at times my spelling left us all confused. Every child going through the primary school system deserves someone like Mr Jameson to give them a hint that they can be something more than they can imagine.

It was good to go back to the school on the day that he retired, by then as headmaster. In the short time I was there, he made me the school football team captain, encouraged my imagination, and broke up the occasional fights I was involved in. He basically gave me confidence, and that has been an invaluable thing throughout my life (although, to be honest, I’ve often had much more confidence than I have had ability at times).

If there was ever a job I think I would have liked, it is that of a teacher in a junior school. I think those who work in education are some of the best of people we have. They have often chosen to take the opportunity to shape lives and influence our society rather than pursue a better-paid profession. I accept there are a fair few who fall into it because they partied through university and didn’t know what else to do or couldn’t get any other job. However, in my life, I know certain teachers changed the way I saw the world, and that cannot be said as readily about many people I have met as an adult.

I can still name the teachers who had a real influence on me:

1. Mr Jameson: for the reasons stated above.

2. Miss F: primary-school teacher who had a Spitfire, long blonde hair, lived in Sandbach and was, no doubt, my first crush, but as I was only six I didn’t act on it.

3. Miss J: comprehensive-school teacher on whom I definitely had a crush from the age of 13. I did act on this, but not till I left sixth form, details of which will not feature on these pages, but for which I shall always be grateful.

4. Mr Hilton: comprehensive-school PE teacher who put a great deal of time and effort into the sport at our school. He made me the captain of my secondary-school football team. (We didn’t have any other sports teams. There was once a lesson in rugby taken by another teacher, but a few broken collar bones and a fight later, that ended.) He also took me to all the town team games, and that eventually lead to a trial for the county under-15s team.

There were two games to be played that day, and I was put in the second group. We stood in the snow for ages till it was time to play, and then those supposedly watching didn’t notice for ten minutes that one team only had nine men. I scored and had one of my best games ever. Mr Hilton assured me I was probably the best player on the pitch, and as he was not prone to empty praise I was very encouraged by his comments. Everyone knew that getting into the county team was the first real step to being scouted by a club – it was the first vital step in your dream becoming a reality.

Those in charge with selecting the team were taking a long time to do it, however. They were huddled over clip boards and team sheets, so Mr Hilton told me to take the opportunity of a lift home from my friend’s dad so I could get warm. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you with the good news later.’

A few hours later he phoned the house to tell me I had not got in. It was the biggest disappointment of my life, and I locked myself in the bathroom till the tears subsided. On the phone he sounded as disappointed as I was, explaining that the teachers picking the team were from a private school in Chester, and that the majority of the squad selected came from their school. It was just another example of how money can buy you opportunity.

Years later, my youngest son, Daniel, played against that same school in the final of a schools cup. The Chester school had consistently won the cup in previous years; Daniel’s school had never even reached the final before. And yet they won. At the final whistle I nearly ran onto the pitch to complete the revenge by waving my victorious fist in front of the Chester school children, parents and staff. Thankfully, common sense told me that as my feelings of being wronged had occurred some thirty years earlier it was unlikely to have involved anyone on the other side of the pitch. Even so, the fact that their official school photographer was reluctant to take a team picture of our boys suggested to me that it was still an institution of tossers.

Mr Hilton had been very supportive in all my school years, using the leverage of the football team to ensure I kept up my schoolwork and didn’t drift, as some of the other lads did.

In the final year the team was good enough to get into a number of the local finals, and I always felt I let Mr Hilton down when I was sent off during one final for punching the centre-half from a school in Helsby. Even to this day I don’t know why I did it: perhaps it was because the lad had long hair and a beaded necklace and looked much cooler than me – he just seemed to irritate me to the point that I punched him. It wasn’t even a good punch, but what hurt more is the fact that I had let Mr Hilton down. I was 16 at the time and I never managed to apologise properly. So if he reads this, I just want to say, ‘Sorry, sir.’

5. Mr Logan: an English teacher who had encouraged me, along with my other English teacher Mrs Withers, through my O-levels in English Language and Literature. He talked me into returning to school when I had left, basically altering the whole course of my life – and that is no exaggeration.

6. Ms Philips: the headmistress of the comprehensive school who bent the rules to allow me to do A-levels and to comply with Mr Logan’s plans for me.

There were other teachers who had more contact with me during my school life and who had more direct influence on me, but that decision, taken with no small consequence, changed the world for me. I will be eternally grateful to both Mr Logan and Ms Philips.

7. Mr Debbage: the teacher who became a friend by giving me somewhere to live when I first moved to Manchester, but who also guided me through my History O-and A-levels, giving me a love of the subject I still retain to this day. He left teaching, as many skilled people do, to move into other areas and effectively became a professional card player. But Bridge’s gain was education’s loss, because he was the most brilliant of teachers, particularly at A-level standard, where he wasn’t having to fight with a room full of varying degrees of interest and intellect, which is the challenge teachers – particularly those in the comprehensive system – face.

8. Miss Boardman: my class tutor through all of my senior-school years. We saw her every day, and it is impossible for someone like that not to have an influence on you. She was only a few years older than us: for many of the teachers in the school it was their first job and they were roughly 8 to 12 years older than the pupils. That is a lot when you’re 11, but it’s not so much when you’re 16. She died too early. I managed to go to her funeral, which was both a sad and a celebratory affair, and I was glad I went. Let’s be honest, you don’t go to a teacher’s funeral unless they meant something to you, and she did.

I am not suggesting this is my Goodbye, Mr Chips moment, but I do feel teachers need to be celebrated. So thank you to all the ones who have been in my life. Thanks, too, even to the ones I didn’t like or who were rubbish at their job. You taught me something: the valuable lesson that some people in authority are pricks.

My education became disrupted as I entered the final year of junior school due to an operation I had on my left leg. At the time I was playing a lot of football, and the GP suggested quite reasonably that the pain in my leg must be ligament damage. As a result, his treatment was rest and a compression bandage.

However, the pain became unbearable after a few weeks and, despite the rest, there seemed to be no improvement. As I was unable to walk, my mum had to wheel me up and down the hill to the GP practice balanced on my bike, to ask if there was any other possible explanation. On many occasions they made the mistake of saying no, until she insisted I be referred to hospital.

Eventually, the referral to the hospital was made. I remember the day the ambulance came to collect me. Just as it arrived, I was sick, either with fear or illness. I don’t recall very much of what happened after that, apart from being prepared for surgery with my mum and dad standing either side of the bed, and my dad leaning in to kiss me on my forehead.

This was at a time when we were years past kissing: goodnight was a nod to my mum and a handshake to my dad – I’m glad to say that my family is so much more demonstrative now than we were then. One thing I have learnt from my travels over the years is that the British approach to displaying affection needs to improve. Now, when I see my mum and sisters and female family members or friends, we always kiss – although London-based females confuse me easily with the one or two cheek thing. Personally, after one cheek, if you are going again, you may as well throw the tongue in.

Eddie, my dad and all male family members get a handshake. Indeed, after a night in a bar with a few dozen Romanian miners (which I will come to later), I always shake hands with any male group I am in. It’s good manners, it breaks down barriers, and I think it shows some class – which is something you don’t always expect to learn from men who spend most of their time down a hole.

Lying on a hospital trolley about to be operated on and having both parents kiss me on the head made me start to think something was wrong. Which it was. Upon arrival at the hospital, my leg had been X-rayed and checked by the aptly named Mr Bone. Mr Bone had diagnosed a condition called osteomyelitis, a bone infection which he said was akin to having an abscess inside my left femur, the size of which, he informed my parents, was a huge cause for concern. He then advised my mum and dad that the next 24 hours would be critical.

In his words, he was operating to try to save my leg, although he told them if the operation was at all delayed and the abscess burst, then it could potentially become systemic. After that, there was a real danger I would die.

His plan was to try to drain the poison out of my leg, although he felt that the damage caused was already such that my leg would probably never grow beyond its current size – I was 11 at the time. It would then either be such a hindrance that I would want it amputated, or I could live a decent life with a built-up shoe.

Of course, I knew nothing of this when my mum and dad kissed me.

Luckily the operation was a success, but I did require a month in hospital and six months with a walking stick, followed by visits to the physiotherapy unit for a further three years, till they were satisfied that the leg was growing in tandem with the other one. I quite enjoyed having the walking stick, which I used to throw for Lassie to chase until I realised she would never bring it back. There is nothing more pathetic than chasing your own dog for your walking stick, when you need a walking stick to walk.

When I was eventually signed off by the physiotherapy department some three years after the operation, I knew how lucky I was. The final sign-off meant that they believed I was fixed for life, and in reality I was: I have never had any problems with my leg, and after the rehabilitation period I was able to do everything as if it had never happened. Yet I knew that not everyone was that fortunate.

During my time in hospital I became aware of a boy in the same ward as me. He had visitors, but he never really noticed them as he lay looking at the ceiling. Sometimes his mum would just sit on a chair next to his bed and cry; other times, she would come with a priest who would administer Holy Communion, but all the time he just lay looking up, communicating using weak flicks of his eyelids.

His name was Kieran, and when I was able get out of my bed I started going over to him with my cartoons. My leg at this point was attached to a drip, which was pumping antibiotic fluid directly into the bone, with another bag to collect the putrid, black-red infection as it drained. I was not able to move all over the ward, but I could make it to the other side of the room to his bed – it only took me around 15 minutes. When the nurses saw that I was visiting Kieran, thankfully they moved his bed next to mine.

Kieran and I became good friends, mainly because we were the only ones in there for more than a few days and because we were very close in age. I would read comics with him or just talk, or show him things. Gradually his winks were accompanied by grunts, and it was clear he was on his way back from the damage that had been caused when he had been knocked over by a van whilst out playing.

When I left hospital I was genuinely sad to be saying goodbye to Kieran. We kept in touch and, during my frequent visits to the hospital, I called in to see him on the ward and later at his house, when he had been deemed well enough to be transferred home, near Warrington. When my hospital visits ended and I had no reason to visit Warrington, our communication reduced to the odd letter or card, and a very occasional phone call, although his speech still had some way to go to be fully comprehensible and his handwriting looked like it had been a struggle to complete the words.

Then, one morning, when I was getting ready to go to school, my dad opened a letter over breakfast. I recognised the handwriting as belonging to Kieran’s mum. I could see from his expression that my dad had a message to pass on. He handed me the letter. Kieran had died. Despite his improvement he hadn’t been strong enough to ward off normal infections and had lost his fight for life.

Kieran had died as a consequence of an accident that could have been avoided. As always with these happenings that can ruin lives, there would have been many nights spent by all involved wishing that those split-second decisions that had put Kieran in front of that van had been different. Like my school friend in the swimming pool.

I was 17 and, once again, I was reminded that nothing in life is guaranteed.

CHAPTER 5

TEENAGE KICKS

I have teenage boys now. I look at their life and not only do I not understand them because they are teenagers and their job is to be incomprehensible to their parents, but also because their life is nothing like the life I had at their age. When I was a teenager, we did not have any form of communication apart from talking either face-to-face, being on the house phone or writing. Admittedly, the letter-writing side was in reality limited to notes around the classroom, usually involving a very poor caricature of the teacher with enormous genitals. Which now seems rather odd. Why would it be funny to suggest the man in front of you had a huge cock? But, for some reason in a world before YouTube, it was the funniest thing we could think of.

Valentine’s Day cards were the only other time I recall writing to communicate. They were things to be prized, and size certainly mattered. During my teenage years I would give my girlfriend a Valentine’s card that was the size of a Wendy house, or padded so it was like a duvet in a box, although admittedly a duvet with a doe-eyed teddy bear on it. I wouldn’t for a minute suggest that I was in any way more romantic than any other teenage boy, but from an early age I learnt that you have to invest if you want something, and an impressive card, in my mind, stood you in good stead for a fondle.

I sometimes miss the simplicity of teenage relationships, though – the ability to end it by telling your mate to tell her mate that she was ‘chucked’ just seems so much more honest in its own cowardly way than the text/Facebook route chosen by teenagers today. I also miss the progressive nature of the physical relationship. The gradual stages of fumbling and endless snogging to suddenly being allowed entry into unchartered waters so that you take another tiny step towards manhood – all of that held an excitement that is hard to replicate at any other stage of your life. A mate of mine said to me that reducing his golf handicap was giving him the same buzz that he received from achieving the gradual progression through the bases when he was a teenage boy. There is nothing that can define you more as a middle-aged man than having a friend who is as excited by lowering his golf handicap as he once was by learning how to undo a bra. Age is a cruel thing.