Читать книгу Becoming Johnny Vegas - Johnny Vegas - Страница 9

It’s hard to do justice to just how frightening and real it felt that evening I was taken to Upholland to begin my first term. The last time I’d been there it was bright and fresh: sun had streamed in through the windows of the corridors and class rooms, and it had had a warm sense of tradition to it – proper, solid, wooden desks, and not a whiff of chipped seventies state-school Formica. Had the Harry Potter books been around at the time, then that place would’ve seemed like the epitome of Hogwarts. (That’s why I cringe at J.K. Rowling’s romanticisation of the whole boarding-school system. If you’re ever in Cineworld St Helens and you hear someone murmuring, ‘Stupid, reckless cow’ behind you, you’ll know who it is.)

In the daytime, Upholland presented itself as a near-magical kingdom – a castle full of potential for jolly japes and Boy’s Own fun. At night, though, it was just the most imposing structure you could imagine, especially for an 11-year-old from a cosy three-up, three-down terrace. Walking through its huge doors and down its harsh grey stone or dark-stained hardwood corridors for the first time, I was terrified.

I felt completely overwhelmed. There was a feeling of nausea in the pit of my tummy, but the urge to retch was subdued by a tight panic in my chest. My dad was carrying my heavy luggage up endless stairs to the dormitory. My mum waited in the car. We’d said goodbye outside. I don’t think she’d have allowed me to unpack had she taken a single step inside that place. And, looking back, I would have begged her to take me home.

My dad was talking away, trying to keep things upbeat, but I didn’t really listen to a single word he said. All I was aware of was the awful realisation swimming around my head – like a panic-stricken cat in a washing machine mid-cycle – that was going, ‘Oh God. Oh, no. I’ve made a terrible mistake!’ And that’s when the catastrophic difference between my first visit there, and that evening, really kicked in: I wouldn’t be going home this time.

I was filled with utter dread. But my dad seemed so bloody pleased for me and I reckon that’s the only thing that helped me hold it together just long enough to say goodbye without breaking down. That’s why Mum – knowing she’d crumble, and thinking she was doing right by me – had opted to stay sobbing in the car.

I have never felt (and doubt I will ever feel) quite as alone as when my dad waved goodbye and closed the dormitory door behind him.

I sat on my bed, drew the useless little privacy curtain across, and cried as quietly as I could into my jumper. There were other new boys crying, but quietly too, as nobody wanted to appear a sissy, I suppose. The buzz of activity, of unpacking and finding a place for everything within our tiny allotted living spaces, was replaced with muffled sobs and snotty noses being wiped on damp woolly sleeves.

Of course it was acute homesickness: all I could think of was the fact that I wanted to go back to St Helens. All those memories, good or bad, had become instantly cherishable. Even the thought of the worst telling-off I ever got suddenly made me yearn for my mum and dad – ‘Bollock me every day if you like, but please, please come and take me home.’

One lad decided that there definitely was a going back, and he made a run for it shortly before lights out. They spotted him running round the corridors looking for a payphone, then chased him down the long driveway that led to the front gates.

The diary might be a fake, but not the sentiment contained within.

They brought him straight back to the dorm, even though he was demanding that a taxi take him home. Years on, I still can’t watch that scene from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest when Martini’s character is dragged away kicking and screaming: ‘I want my cigarettes now, Nurse Ratched, now, do you hear me?’ without thinking of him.

We all made friends quickly in our year. We had to. There was no getting through the school day then playing with your street mates. Besides, there were only eleven of us. ‘Underlow’ was our collective name. They didn’t mess around when it came to putting us in our place.

Over the next few months I didn’t find myself praying for spiritual enlightenment or world peace, but rather for the daily home comforts denied us in some misguided pious belief that it would make us better priests one day. We would wake up and have to go and wash in a stone-cold basement with no warm water. It was long, dank and dark, with a row of twenty or so taps. There were a small number of cubicles with baths in them, and warm water available later in the day, but unless you had spare time during the weekends, the strict Monday–Friday regime meant that you could only really use them later in the evening.

If you did risk a bath at that time, someone might spot you taking the long walk from the dormitory with your robe and wash-bag, wait, and then throw cold water over the top. Or, more likely, lock the main doors and turn out all the lights. The same would happen if you dared to use the toilets at the far end of the cellar in the evening, and it was a bloody scary room to be trapped in when pitch black.

It took years of rehabilitation before my bowels stopped going into lockdown along with the setting sun, because the only alternative was a toilet at the end of our dormitory, slap bang underneath the hatch leading to the bell tower. And legend had it that Betty Eccles, a former resident of the building (I know, she sounds like a bun, but we were only 11, for God’s sake!) hung herself in that tower and haunted our dorm. There was even a Betty Eccles night when Upholland legend had it that she left the tower and visited any poor soul situated in one of our dormitory’s ‘horse-boxes’ (these were the beds spaced in the unfortunate position without a window because of a supporting arch, which had no direct natural sunlight as a result).

When that night arrived, along with bedtime, we moved like a Spartan regiment in tight formation up the stairs to our dormitory. We might’ve looked the part, but lacked the bravery of the original 300. And, as we opened the door to the dorm, this bloody thing sprang at us, howling hysterically.

Eleven kids screamed in pure, abject piss-your-pants terror and tried to leg it at the same time. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a wide enough staircase for a mass escape, so obviously there were casualties. I know I trampled and stamped on my new mates and I didn’t give a shit. I didn’t want to die.

The ‘thing’ screamed again, but none of us dared turn back. Despite it being dark, I was seriously considering taking my chances jumping through the gap between the banisters. (If you ever find yourself on a flight with me and you notice that I have blagged the extra leg-room by sitting next to the emergency exit over the wings, then it’s only fair to let you know now that in the case of a real emergency I would be absolutely bloody useless.)

On this occasion, I used my foot and another kid’s head (I think his name was Gerard) as a pivot to prise myself free from the rest of the group. I flew into the wall and was already turning on a tuppence to jump the next full flight of stairs when I heard somebody laughing loud and hard. My instinct to leap was postponed just for a moment: I wondered if maybe ‘it’ had caught someone and was now temporarily sated in its blood-lust – your brain tends to work bloody quickly in those life-and-death situations.

I had a slight head-start so dared to waste time looking back to see who had bought the farm at the hands of Betty Eccles. Turning around expecting to see a fellow Underlow being dragged back through the door, kicking and screaming (hopefully with a little bit of piss running down his leg too), what I saw instead was a fucking fifth-year lad peeling off a rubber ‘old woman’ mask while doubling-up with laughter.

‘You wankers! Ha ha ha!’

I actually pissed myself a bit more at this point out of sheer relief. I couldn’t say anything back though, because my heart was doing a damn good impression of my arse.

‘You should’ve seen your faces! Ha ha ha!’

I couldn’t – I was stepping on most of them making my cowardly escape.

‘Tossers! Now go to bed and get ready for the real thing! Ha ha ha!’

It actually would’ve been funny if you were in on the joke, but I had a damp crotch, and my bed was right next door to a horse-box, so I was in no mood for laughter. It sounds awful, but I still can’t remember who my neighbour was. I just wished that they would satisfy the ghost and she wouldn’t come looking for a chubby dessert.

Jesus, what kind of night those poor lads must have had in the horse-boxes! I was only next door to one and I lay wide-awake, eyes tight shut, my rosary beads wrapped tight around my hand in case Betty appeared over the top of the partition. I distinctly remembered cursing myself for listening to Iron Maiden’s ‘The Number of the Beast’ at Alan Hale’s house, despite my dad saying that it was the Devil’s music.

I actually hated heavy metal so I was glad to reject it in my soul, but I had looked at the album cover, and Iron Maiden’s mascot ‘Eddie’ was the template for what I expected to attack me during the night. The wife of Eddie. The dead but unavenged grandmother of Eddie. Skin deteriorated and stretched just far enough to show radical gum decay but not quite enough to look like something off of a comically crap ghost train.

I can’t remember falling to sleep that night; it was only that complete and utter terror finally gave way to sheer exhaustion. I didn’t even egg anyone on into meeting up in ‘the cupboard’, as I’d already decided – seeing as I wasn’t actually in a horse-box – that safety in numbers was a stupid idea.

A daft lad in a rubber mask did more for faith in the Almighty that night than all of Upholland’s outdated regimes. I prayed the entire night for God to save me from that fictitious ghost. I made deals with him, including a complete embargo on masturbation, if he would only spare me and let Betty feast on another. A lay student maybe: at least then he wasn’t losing a future foot-soldier.

We were allowed access to television only when, and if, our head of year, Father Towers, allowed us to watch it in his room. And then for perhaps half an hour, tops. And what 11-year-old doesn’t want to watch the singing nuns tearing up the stage at Notre Dame Cathedral?

Father Towers was one of the youngest priests there; it was his first year. He was incredibly kind and patient, but had a manner to him that was almost permanently apologetic. I often wondered if that was a past seminary’s doing, or just his nature. Either way, you could easily make him fidget with awkward questions. Kids can be quite cruel when they sense a weakness like that in an adult, and Father Towers seemed better suited to a quiet country parish somewhere – he lacked the sadistic streak needed to really make a name for himself in his new environment.

I never had a cup of tea the entire time I was at Upholland. And I’d come off the breast and straight onto the teapot as a child. They’d make it in this huge urn, but it was thick with sugar, which made me gag. Like a diabetic Oliver Twist, but asking for less, not more, I timidly requested a little pot of unsweetened tea for those of us unable to handle the saccharine rush. Judging by their reaction, you’d think I’d suggested passing out free condoms to the more promiscuous students dabbling in homosexuality.

And then there was the food in general. Now, in fairness, I was an incredibly fussy eater back then (if only that had stuck to this day). It was a sort of extension of the homesickness – I wanted things cooked the way my mum and dad did it.

I was obsessed with texture and presentation. Apart from morning cereal and sausages, every other meal served there was an ordeal, although tea-time was a jam butty free-for-all. It was help yourself, and I bloody well did. It was meant as a snack before supper but it became my staple diet at Upholland. It was a miracle I didn’t get rickets.

My attachment to sausages actually got me into my one and only fight at the seminary. There was a fifth-form prick, a lay-student, whose tan from countless summers in the South of France failed to conceal a pompous ruddiness in his cheeks – probably from generations of in-breeding. He was like a cross between Hawaiian teen-idol Glenn Medeiros and Rumpole of the Bailey. I couldn’t stand him. He awoke in me an inverted snobbery that I still struggle to control to this day.

Anyhow, he came over to our table one lunchtime, and started lifting our sausages onto his plate with a big, stupid grin on his face. I saw red and stuck a fork in his hand, hard. He went ballistic, but I couldn’t take him seriously because he spoke like someone from Upstairs, Downstairs – honestly, you’d think he was bollocking a scullery maid at the turn of the century. He didn’t dare physically kick off in the dining-hall, but he made it quite clear that I was in for it later that day.

Now, I was not by any means a brawler as a kid, but I had a strong sense of moral righteousness. And being as unhappy as I was, I can remember thinking, ‘Sod him, what have I got to lose?’ He waited for me outside my last lesson of the day. I think he thought he’d make me sweat and then bully a squirming apology out of me. But I just flew at him. His four years of seniority and height advantage meant nothing to me; I couldn’t care less if he did give me a ‘ruddy good hiding’.

He obviously wasn’t expecting it, because I got a good few punches in before he swung back at me. My dad used to say, ‘It’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.’ Well, I’d found the perfect outlet for all my discontent with Upholland and was not about to give up, even though I could feel these heavy thumps hitting the back of my head.

My face was buried in his chest as I swung away madly at him. He pushed me away, trying to get a decent angle at which to hit me, but I just ran at him again. I was ape-shit furious, out of control. I wrapped his tie around my left hand and yanked him down so I could smash his stupid face in with my right. He ploughed into my forehead as I was looking up at him, desperate to land one square on his nose.

I belted him good and hard, but that only seemed to make him angrier. He grabbed my hair, trying to manoeuvre me again into a perfect striking distance. I shook him free and threw punch after punch until there was nothing in front of me but red mist.

The next thing I knew, we had been yanked apart by a passing priest and were being made to stand against the wall outside Father Samuel’s office. My adversary was fuming, but it was the best I’d felt since I’d got there. The swelling over my left eye and the headache from the blows to the back of my head barely registered. I was experiencing something very like euphoria – better than any cry under the covers in the wee small hours. Part of me had managed to say, ‘Enough is enough’ and I was buzzing off it. That’s probably why I wasn’t anywhere near as nervous as I should have been when we were ushered into Sammy’s office.

You know in war films when you think the Nazis are bad enough, but then the SS turn up and make them look like a bunch of bed-wetters? Well, Sammy had that very same effect. He was the last remnant of the Spanish Inquisition. He was Darth Vader. He had his own terrifying theme tune that played in your head as he walked by.

He was short but no less intimidating for that, and walked in that quick, determined manner that so many little people tend to. Behind his glasses he had keen, mean, piercing eyes that made you feel like you’d been captured on CCTV. He watched you intently, like a bird looks at a worm before dragging it out of the ground, waiting for any sign of weakness, his head tilting in a sharp, short move when he suspected something was rotten in the state of Upholland.

That man was a human lie detector. And when he wasn’t scrutinising you, he had a way of completely dismissing you – like a crap doctor who conducts an appointment with a couldn’t-care-less tone whilst staring out of the window the entire time, making you feel unworthy of the most basic common decencies, such as eye contact. Father Sammy reserved this for the times when he knew a gripe was genuine, but had no intention of resolving the matter. He could be menacing and then instantly casual. It was like being 007 in Goldfinger’s lair – you knew he expected you to die, and he couldn’t give a toss.

Father Sammy managed all of our finances. Our pocket-money was given to him, and he in turn would decide if your individual request was deemed worthy of releasing funds. Some kids used to hide cash in the dorms, under mattresses like teenage pensioners, but you were for it if it was found. It was claimed it was to stop us abusing the once-weekly tuck-shop facility, but really it was just another means of control.

After all, who needed Mars Bars when you had cups of tea that would make Willy Wonka OD? No, Father Sammy was an accountant, not a spiritual guru. I had to virtually beg him for my own cash so I could send away for a calligraphy set. (Oh aye, I was hardcore! I had me some mad scribing skills going on.) You would think he suspected I was buying smack the way he questioned me. What could possibly be detrimental about fountain pens with a slightly broader nib? ‘That curve on your peculiarly detailed capital R, be it a devil’s tail? Burn the witch!’ God, it really bugged me. There I was, trying to get through the days with a hobby that would make any state-school teacher spontaneously combust with admiration, yet all I got from Sammy Scrooge was a seething reluctance to part with my own pocket money.

One thing was certain. Neither the fifth-former nor I was coming out of this particular encounter any the richer. As we stood there awaiting judgement in his office, Sammy asked if we had anything to say for ourselves. The man was normally a human laxative where I was concerned, but I was still on my adrenaline high. I knew I could hardly pipe up with, ‘This has easily been my best day here so far!’ so I just shrugged.

Posh-Boy Pob cracked, however, and tried to claim that I had been taunting and bullying him. Sammy turned to me but I offered nothing more than my ‘As if?’ face. For me, for once, whatever punishment would be served seemed well worth the crime.

Sammy studied both of us for what seemed like an age but I had nothing to hide. Eventually, he turned back to his big book of numbers and delivered judgement in a very matter-of-fact manner: ‘If this boy is capable of bullying somebody your size, then perhaps you deserve to be bullied. Now get out of here, the pair of you.’

This left me with a grudging respect for Father Samuel. I mean, he remained for the best part a by-the-book disciplinarian/disciplinary dick/douche-bag, but that felt like the first time I’d seen common sense prevail in that place. And as the years have passed, although I can’t quite qualify this beyond a gut feeling, I’ve come to believe that he was at odds with some of the goings-on at Upholland. I think he did what he believed was best by us in a mean-minded, bureaucratic kind of way but, overwhelmingly, he hid behind the day-to-day economics of running such a big institution: not so much a collaborator, more an anguished passive enabler to the system. I think lots of decent priests found ways and means of distracting themselves from some of the more distasteful realities of Upholland in this way.

Outside Sammy’s office, my bouffant aggressor made it quite clear that our feud was far from over. I offered to go again straight away as my blood was still up, but he strode off with all the camp menace of a semi-beaten piñata donkey. Still, I knew I couldn’t rely on me being able to lose my rag as effectively as I’d done earlier on any other random day. So I called in the big artillery.

I’ll never forget the weekend our Mark accompanied my parents up for a Saturday afternoon visit.