Low expectations

 We lived in a world of low expectations. I remember at junior school a representative from a university put out a question to the assembly. " Does anyone want to go to University, put your hands up if you do?"

She was met with a hall full of blank looking blinking eyes and open mouths. A few hands went up. University? What's that?

On another note not connected to this I remember a chap dressed like a big game hunter who came from south Africa. Probably one of the teacher mates. He explained that out on the savannah the Lion wasn't the "KING OF THE JUNGLE " as everyone claimed. The animal that could claim that accolade was the humble giraffe.

To gasps in the hall he described with glee how he witness a pride of lions attacking a giraffe. The lions soon backed off however when the giraffe kick one of the lions heads clean off. He was never invited back for some reason.

I don't think the system expected much from us.

It wasn't all doom and gloom on the career front. There are a few friends I know that have done very well after leaving school. Not because of their schooling I would say. Just because they worked bloody hard. A, "I'll show 'em! " mentality took them far. 

On the flip side there are 3 I know about that went to prison for violent crimes. A robbery in Otham, where one of the Gary's parents killed the dogs with crossbows, then shot and killed gardener and left the owner for dead having shot her in the neck. They were caught with the loot. Buried in a garden in Maidstone. Near where I lived back then. A little place called Downswood.  Another Gary removed someone's head from their spinal column using a sawn off shotgun at point blank range. He was a year below me.

So I think the teachers were just pleased if we didn't end up in prison.

My first day at Kemnal Manor Lower school felt like ducks getting a coach to Duck season. Little fresh face 11 year olds all ready to be fed to the baying crowd of year 2 and 3. We were to be scalped. The tradition at our school was the newbies had to be "tagged". A wonderful sport where the young new school mates would be released into the wilds of the playground to be chased by the older boys and have their tags ripped off. All witnessed by the teachers I presume. I can't remember them stopping it.

Some kids on my coach were removing it themselves. I chose not to and somehow got away with it. Until a year later I mentioned it to my two chums Gary and Gary. They then pinned me down and removed the tag with glee. At least I made my friends happy.

I realised quite quickly that if you wanted to be left alone you needed to make sure people knew you weren't to be messed with. Reputation was important. I had my chance a few days into the term when at break a tall beefy 2nd year lad with skinny hanger on, a sort of Salacious B Crumb figure decided to try and rob me of my dinner money.

Back against the wall I decided I needed to act quickly. I went for the weakest point and hit the smaller friend in the mouth and made him cry. They backed off and I was left alone for a while after that. But I hated the school. I feigned illness for 6 weeks but could manage to hang it out for 6 years. I had to go back. I did have a lot of friends. There were just so many sharks swimming around wanting your blood. It wasn't a nice experience.

We had an art teacher who went to prison for sexually abusing children. I was told about this by one of my wife's workmates who was a couple of years below me at the same school. I had forgotten all about him. I then realised that he had been grooming me. The memories flooded back, he used to sit you on his knee and bump you up and down to see if he could get an erection. He would whisper in your ear so you could feel his hot breath, he was that close. My chest is tightening just thinking about it. After he told me about this freak I had 2 migraines. It didn't occur to me as a trusting child that this man was grooming me. We didn't know what that was.

It seems I got off lightly.

This deplorable activity wasn't limited to the art department. We had a television studio, it was modest, we had 3 cameras and a little separate control room. It was run by a teacher who was a member of the Playboy Club. He had a little card and everything. Fancied himself as a ladies man of course. He had a cartoon beefy face like Buzz Lightyear and a chin bulls eyed with a meaty dimple. One fateful day he left his natty jacket on the chair and popped out for a swift fag. Probably thinking we were civilised human beings who respected peoples privacy. He was mistaken. We pounced on the Tweet jacket like it was a wounded animal, rifling through the pockets to quell our bloodlust. We got more than we bargained for, he had a nice collection of pornographic polaroid's in his top pocket.

We were stupid kids, not that stupid. Even our limited ability to join dots enabled us to work out that this guy was probably in the room with these happy people.

Which leads me to another after school activity Mr Playboy was up to.

Being a member of the TV club we had access to the studio. It sounds fancier than it was. We found a cassette with black an white porn. A teacher character doing all sorts with women in one of our huts. He was using the school camera equipment to share his unique cinematic vision. We rewound the tape and put it back where we found it. We did not tell anyone. In fact I think it's the first time I've told anyone about it.

I feel sick to my stomach thinking these men were trusted looking after young boys.

Normal

 Just before we start, I would like to pause and offer some sage advice to everyone. Buckle up, this will change your life.

 Eat dates. 

I can't tell you the dramatic change in the colon jackpot. Do yourself a big favour and eat 2 or 3 dates every day and your bottom will thank you.

You are welcome.

Before I go into the secondary school journey I would like to take this opportunity to talk about what is normal and why we should stop seeing differences in our fellow humans.

I do consider myself normal. Normal as a cup of tea! (From China). As normal as eating a bramley apple. (Apples came from Kazakhstan originally.) I would imagine my normal is completely abnormal to your definition of normal I would put money on it. What defines normal? It's a human construct. 

It's made up.

It can be defined where civilisation is in a point of time. I think we can all agree for the most part of our 300,000 year human history we were digging around for grubs to eat and trying not to get eaten by a sabre tooth tiger or our relatives. Shitting in bushes and wiping our backsides with moles. A pretty normal existence then. You would get second looks in the park even in Orpington today. 

When the bastard Romans ( you remember the Romans. Ruthless barbarians with an engineering degree?) invaded we Celts were lucky if they didn't increase our bum hole size using their Gladius swords( Yes I looked that up) on our naked blue painted bodies. You'd pop down the shop to get your oat milk and a bloody Roman jumps out from Café Nero and spills your beans all over the zebra crossing with a pike up your nether's. That was their normal, it wouldn't even make the local papyrus back then. A bit like how getting a university degree is now days.

Location is also a determining factor on what is normal. If I was to be plucked out of merry England and placed in a jungle, my so called normal behaviours and routines would have to change pretty smartish if I were to survive. Gone the Pot Noodle, hello toasting tarantulas on an open fire and boiling water through a carbon coated sock!

Normal changes, which means we need to be open to what is normal. Be prepared to find out that how we behave in the past wasn't actually acceptable.

Unfortunately, and it pains me to say this as a 60 year old man. We are living too long. What we are dealing with now is a bunch of farty old twats who want to rewind to the 70's. If they were decent human beings thinking of what's best for our society they should have died years ago. Any self respecting grand parent back in the day, would be lucky if they made it to 70! 

They 1970's grand parents didn't know what a Zumba class was back then and they were better off for it! They dropped dead taking their outmoded values with them to let the next generation shape their future. Now you get these 50 to 90 year olds having their bigoted opinions that it was all better back then. It fucking wasn't! Medical science has improved so much it affords them life to have that stupid opinion and shape a society they will not live through.

We have these walking trojan horses popping statins like candy whose traditional values have changed before their eyes. Society moves on and they don't like it, they don't like it one bit! They liked it when kids could play in building sites and drown in a muddy trench. Builds character! My dads best friend was killed on a building site, being caught between 2 lorries. A brutal death. I don't think he ever recovered from that. That terrible accident was preventable and would not happen today. 

Oh but now it's "Health and safety gone mad!"

The noise of this stupidity is to get us to vote ourselves less and less regulation so the rich corporations can pollute more, protect their workforce less and make more money by screwing the working classes into the ground.

 I knew 2 kids in my street that were mangled by preventable accidents. It was horrific. When I look back I thank Thor I survived.*

*Being an atheist I feel Thor is a God I can get behind.

If they like the "Good old days" so much, chuck away their modern medicine that have kept those veins open and see how long the fuckers last.

That's not healthy behaviour for an evolving civilisation to go backwards. Personally I don't want to normalise being a sexist, racist, bigoted asshole. That's just me.

To counter this we should have a minimum voting limit, we should have a maximum. Say 75.

As far as I can see. Anybody trying to rewind to olden times want the working class to get back in their box and learn that their superiors are in control, so please put my expensive riding boot back on your throat and don't look me in they eye you insolent piece of working class shit.

As I hope I am demonstrating with my little amble back to my memories of those heady time. Life then was pretty shit. Especially for the working class.

New Schools

 I didn't like schools. I enjoyed loafing around my house. Drawing, running round the streets like a feral cat and throwing mud at my neighbours washing. Life was pretty sweet. Then Nursery school happened. I remember my first day. I was sitting next to a kid who had a channel of snot running into his mouth with zero tissue involvement. Just the odd snake like darting tongue movement to halt the flow of green lava to the chin. I looked round the table. We all knew it was happening. We decided as a group to ignore it and hopefully it would go away.

Then being force to sleep at nap time... SLEEP? I didn't sleep during the day. To my mind this was a world of HERITICS! My heart is beating faster than a rabbits people, I can't NAP!

 On the whole though, I thought it was pretty good. A sort of slow jazz of learning. I was introduced to stickle Bricks, which were a laughable version of Lego. I defy anyone to make anything interesting from 20 stickle Bricks.  It was just giant plastic Velcro as far as I could see. Of course I couldn't see that. Velcro hadn't been invented yet. So I probably thought they were shitty blocks of comb.

I have no idea why Lego wasn't deployed. Perhaps there were fears we might eat Lego, choke to death? But this being the early 70's I can't see the madness of Health and safety being employed here. Teachers pretty much blew smoke in our faces from roll ups and watched us graze our knees on broken glass in the playground.

I got used to Nursery. This was the new normal. I thought education was pretty sweet. In comparison to Nursey school,  Infants school felt like Borstal. For the first few days my mum had to drag me to school. I was standing horizontal to the floor on a door frame as my mum the other side of the door was trying to drag me into class like it was a portal to Hell. 

Again, I don't think she fully prepared me for school. It was very much like a sink or swim attitude for her. I remember the teacher kindly sitting me on her lap and explaining in front of the whole class what a silly little boy I was. It seemed to work. I calmed down and used to choo choo to school in front of my mum when it was cold like a little Thomas the Tank Engine. Not Gordon, Gordon was a DICK.

I do remember Infants school highlighted a little a toilet communication issue I didn't know about which I have nightmares over even today.

When I was potty trained, my mum set up a protocol. It was to say the phrase was, "Can I do a dirty?".  Not the best way to communicate that you need to go to the toilet. When the situation arose in class that I needed to say it to my teacher and in earshot of my new classmates, I asked. " Can I go to...the toilet please?"

Even I knew it was an inappropriate terminology at 5 years old! The kindly teacher granted my request and I tootled of to the loos. Parked myself on the toilet only to have this quiet time of contemplation disturbed by fellow alumni outside the toilet like pillaging mini Vikings. Jumping into my cubicle and laughing that I needed to do a poo.

I was humiliated.

That cold hard bucket of ice water conditioning cured me of going to toilet in the school system for the rest of my educational career.

One of the kids responsible later threw a stone at my head. I remember hearing the impact inside my head as the dirty projectile hit me between the eyes. To be fair it was a cracking display of marksmanship. Witnessed by the dinner lady who wasn't impressed awarded the boy by getting spanked by the gym teacher almost immediately. This beating lead to the boy running length of the field screaming his head off like a curly haired banshee.

The transition from Infant to junior school wasn't so bad. It was right next to the Infant school, so wasn't so much of a leap. We shared a field and subsequently I had an idea of the pace of the set up. I sort of knew the teachers. The head was allowed to spank us. It was with a ballet shoe, so that was alright.

What was different is my parents decided I could walk myself there. I had to cross a reasonably busy road, my parents probably thought it was nothing a twitchy highly strung 7 year old couldn't deal with. So my mum packed me out the door. Only for me to chicken out at the road and run back hammering at the door for her to take me there. She wasn't happy and had to get changed out of her dressing gown muttering obscenities as we walked there together.

Here's a thought. Maybe take me the first few times then get me to do it on my own, then perhaps trust me to know what I was doing... Not a helpful suggestion to make 53 years later. I think it's such a good point to make that should transcend backwards through time and slap into their heads in back in 1972. 

I think I flourished. I was designing artwork for Christmas boards in my class. Writing and performing assemblies with my mate Gary( Yes I am still using that device) about dinosaurs. 

It was pointed out to me later by a couple of giggling girls that I did have a hole in my trousers through out my cross legged performance. I wondered why it went so well. By the 4th year we were top dogs!

Then Grange Hill happened. It was fairly innocuous senior school drama. Prime time kids TV. A dramatic window into the life of children in senior school.

 I DID NOT LIKE WHAT I SAW.

I failed my 11 plus. My mate Gary failed as well. But I think his dad, who was the editor of the Kentish Times pulled a few strings, he magically got in to St. Olave's school for chinless boys and wizards. Me being a muggle had the choice of Walsingham or Kemnal Manor. 

Do you like being thrown into lava or acid?

 Walsingham to me felt like crazy town. I think it was. Picture Velociraptors in a pen trying to escape. They later bombed it from a great distance and now it's a radioactive zombie site with armed guards on machine gun nests.

Our bus used to pass Walsingham school and their brood of students would board. My abiding memory is that one of the girls was trying to set fire to my highly flammable winters coat (with sexy hood), using a disposable lighter, flame wafting on the corner of my unzipped coat while she sat behind me. Until I saw her and moved. She looked very disappointed. Getting off the bus you had to run out the doors to avoid the impressively green sticky gauntlet of flob raining down from the top floor of the vehicle. Often getting home to find a nice green slug on the back of your blazer.

So I went to Kemnal manor LOWER school. Formally Edgebury. There was an Upper and lower school. Oh joy! Me being a creature of habit, having to change twice at senior school did not sit well with me. 

Onto my fun time with senior school education.

Time Worms

 I have a theory. This theory has come about from my taking of Lions mane mushroom supplements. I do think this has opened a few doors in my brain allowing me to peer down this tunnel of my remembered past.

My theory goes like this...

 When our hearts beat for the first time in our mother's wombs we enter the 4th dimension we call time. As our heart beats we cause a worm of time. Our recorded memory of events that happen one after the other as each beat of the heart. It's also a physical recording of events within the 4th dimension, like a groove in a vinyl record. If played out from birth to death, our movements would look very much like a long worm trapped in amber. Baby foetus at the back and old man at the face. Hopefully extraordinarily old and playing badminton.

As we live and experience time the tail of the worm grows bigger and bigger with each second we breathe. We remember time by thinking back down the worm's tail. Until one day we die and our heart stops beating. We leave the realms of the 4th dimension. The umbilical cord of time is snipped at the very start of the journey and the worm spins back from past to present like one of those retractable spring dog leads replaying backwards into our dying consciousness all of our life's memories. All your greatest hits in one go. WALLOP!

Our life flashes before our eyes.

Does that mean we restart the whole experience again, back to that first heartbeat and ultimately live forever? An endless cycle of ME!  Perhaps that's a reason why we sometimes have de ja vu?

  If that was the case, would you be able change decisions to alter your path and live another life? Gosh that's interesting to think about. The answer for me would have to be no.

Despite my trials a tribulations being dragged up in Kent, I am very happy with how my life is and the sort of person I am becoming. My wife is lovely and my children are the best. I am truly happy despite my rather flaky up bringing.

It is of course just a theory by a 3 dimensional being.

Oh Brothers!

 There was an age gap. A big one. So when I plopped into their live I don't think they were thrilled. As far as the dynamic with my brothers went, they seemed to hate each other. Petty jealousy seemed to be the main fuel thrown onto the bicker fire.

My youngest eldest brother complained that the other one used his Meccano and how unfair it was. He was the favourite and he got away with murder. He would complain about this power imbalance way into his 50's. I mean, come on....get over it.

He's probably moaning about that shit now...Ho hum.

Of course my arrival started the mechanism for us to move out of their neighbourhood in Crystal Palace to jolly old Kent. Which meant leaving behind friends, schools and relatives. Not easy for them I'm sure.

Unaware of what I was birthing myself into, I was launched like a little weapon onto this 10 year old battlefield between brothers. I'm sure my parents sat them down and explained why they wanted me and how they still loved them and we would all look after each other and be a loving family supporting each other with what ever life would throw up against us. Greenheads together, right?

Or they probably said nothing and allowed stewing resentments to build until it spilled out like a tsunami of angry verbal vomit of petty arguments at Birthdays, Christmas and weddings.

 Later when I was older, perhaps 5 or 6 my mum needed to go to work. Needs must, as my parents needed to earn money, which is understandable. My mum had a new job working in a greengrocers. The way my family prepared me for this new, to my mind unwelcome set up, was to keep it a military secret and behind my back, diverting me with Sesame Street, bundle mum in a car and drive off at high speed, like she was being kidnapped, in the hope I would not notice.

Only flaw in this genius plan was I did noticed. I do remember a sense of panic seeming the back of my mum slamming the car door and driving off in our black Hillman Imp. I started screaming and banging at the windows as she left being pulled back by my brothers. I think it was a shock for me, I was with mum all the time. I must have realised on a primal level she was my only ally and I was left with my brothers to look after me when dad was at work.

I never really remember Dad ever looking after me, thinking about it.

My mother trusted that my brothers would take good care of me, because they were very sensible lads. Heckle was now 21 and Jeckle was 16.( This is not my brothers names by the way. From hence forth this is how I will affectionally refer to them) They we going to the pubs now, smoking, drinking and into girls. They wouldn't  mind looking after a precocious little 6 year old brother, of course they would read me books and show me the secrets of how to construct Lego houses. Right? They baby sat me the only way they knew how.

They would take me to the local pubs. 

I remember going into the Seven Stiles in St Mary Cray. In those days there we public bars and saloon bars. Public bars were for riff raff, ( We were classed at Riff Raff) and the saloon bars were more for your more discerning clientele, for some reason it boasted more expensive drinks and had carpets, a dart board and maybe a juke box. In St Mary Cray this probably translated that the Saloon bar was the stomping ground for out for the local crims.

My youngest eldest brother Jeckle took me in there. I cast my mind back and I was like going into a medieval scene. Blue smoke hanging in layers, ventilated round the room via lungs of the patrons at the bar. Immediately being noticed by the locals. Coz six year olds aren't usually allowed in pubs. Not even then. I felt like I was a robot walking into the Cantina Bar. I bit like the greeting I got when I was brought home from the hospital. To mix film references, I wouldn't be surprised if some local missed his dart board.*

*For younger readers I refer to the Cantina Scene in Star Wars the first and forth one. And of course American Werewolf in London where the two backpackers ask about a local totem. Complete mood killer.

I remember a woman, she was sitting, probably in her 50's. A 1970's 50's, so she looked 70 with a hole in her throat and a microphone. To my horror, she would place this devise on her neck to be able to vocalize which I can only describe as a sort of drag queen Dalek voice, with dancing bronchial under tones.

She took a shine to me and I just wanted to escape in fear she might eat me.

The older brother Heckle preferred the Royal Albert, which was further away and meant we had to cross a rather busy A224 Cray Avenue road. Heckle was a lot taller than Jeckle and would stride off leaving me running to keep up.

I remember him grumpily leaving me behind walking from the pub, my world spinning to cross the road by myself. He'd giving me one too many shandies and I couldn't keep up. I got across the road, more thanks to the Green Cross Code man to my lovely Greenhead Cross brother.

How he would laugh at that story at family get togethers, him and Jeckle would often disagree with each other about which one got me drunk.

I have got news for you...You both did, congrats.

Trauma

 It's weird how trauma hits you. You have it, it's in your eyeline waving at you, but you look straight past it. A few years back my mum kept blacking out. There's more to that tale which I will go into. For the purposes of this narrative I will park it as that for now.

She had fallen on her side and was experiencing shortness of breath, she called me just after breakfast, she did not call an ambulance or my older siblings. For good reasons. One would probably be in a pub, the other was scared of his own shadow and didn't like to leave the house. I think the trauma he suffered having been the first born and having 5 years exposure to my parents had probably shot his nerves for the rest of his life.

So it was up to me to drive and see what was going on. I left Lisa, my wife to look after the children.

When I arrived she was in a bad way sitting upright in her dressing gown as I remember bolt upright on the small settee in the corner. Calmly sitting looking fairly calm and trying to not breathe too much. I immediately called an ambulance. They arrived pretty quickly. Assessed her and said she was putting it on. They thought this 85 year old woman was having them on. I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. After a bit of arm twisting I got them to take her to A and E.

The hospital room was full of older individuals who had fallen down stairs, laying on gurneys surrounded by loved ones. It was chaos, although it all seemed quite managed. I am sure it wasn't as dark as I remember. To me, thinking back it feels like a scene from the Boer War. Dark shadows in the corners a 360 view of painful accidents twisting sinew and frail bone. A dark depressing Dutch master piece conveying the aftermath of war.

After hours of painful prodding and X-rays it turned out she had broke a rib and punctured her lung. She needed to be intubated to inflate the lung without aesthetic. So there I was holding my mothers hand while a skilled doctor cut a hole between the ribs, inserted a tube and fixed her.

She didn't flinch. 

Say what you like about her. She was tough as they come. Tougher than me as it turns out. This wasn't her first rodeo, I knew this. My mum had marbled scars on her neck from all the tubes the doctors stuck down her throat, from the outside to drain her lungs of fluid to fight the Tuberculosis she had caught from her father. He unfortunately died from it when she was still in hospital. She was 9 years old when that happened.

Once she had stabilized she was shipped off to another hospital. Exhausted and without any help from anyone from my family I went home. 10pm exhausted. I then woke up at 7, rung the hospital and rushed off to see if I could find her. Once in the hospital I somehow lost my way and found that I was in a "STAFF ONLY" area and needed a passkey to get out. Luckily a kindly doctor let me out. I think they had every right to chloroform me while I was in their domain and harvest my organs for the black market. I take that as another close shave.

Free from the doctors Labyrinth I made it my mission to find her.  When I did eventually find my mother it turned out to be another old lady with a "Green" in her surname. Everyone seems to have trouble with the "HEAD" bit in "GREENHEAD". Don't worry, if you get it wrong, I WILL JUDGE YOU!

So, panic stricken I went back to reception where they directed me to my biological mother. Which was a relief. But also I must admit, I did quite like the look of the old lady they took me to in the first place. I don't think I was allowed to swap parents. I regret not asking.

So, that dealt with we had the problem of looking after dad. He had dementia. Which my mother decided not to tell him. She did once clumsily. It was heart breaking. The doctor was round to see them both. I was in the kitchen making tea. Dad, got up to go to the toilet. As he was gone, mum decided to take the opportunity to talk to the doctor quietly about dads condition. I say quietly, it was like she was talking to a work colleague in a noisy factory, without the factory or noise.

He heard every word up top of the stairs.

 I know this because I was about to call up to tell him the tea was ready to see him sitting in his Stannah chair stair seat, sobbing quietly to himself. I did what any good son would do. Look at my feet spun of my heels and went back in the kitchen and pretend it didn't happen.

Coz that's how we dealt with things in my family.

So with my mum in hospital my dad was on his own in the house for the first time in years. We did all visit him every day. I made dinners and sat with him. My brothers did their bit. Although I think some of the wives did more for one if them than I think he did. It was nice to spend time with him. We never connected. Not even then. All I remember him saying was 

"Where's Jean?"

After a day or so of this, my left eye began to water. I thought it was an infection. I got drops. It wasn't until a few weeks later I realised, I was crying. Once I realised that. I could let it all out. That's when I finally realised we are not in control. Well, not totally anyway.

Mid Life Madness

 I am 60. I look around me, and a lot of older men my age, older and below have problems mentally. They seem to go a bit gaga. Maybe they are looking for answers. Lockdown seemed to throw a few people through a madness loop.

Famous examples. I mention this person not because they told me on Twitter my Cow cartoons weren't funny. which stung I must admit. The person was a comedy behemoth...But at least Boy George and Julian Clary seemed to liked them. They both followed me before I came off that particular platform.

I speak about the amazing comedy writer and director Graham Linehan. I don't know what caused his behavioural change . Perhaps a constant diet of Mrs Brown's Boys on a YouTube loop in his basement sent him over the edge. 

Whatever it was, he decided instead of writing and directing some of the worlds greatest comedies it was his role in life to become an anti Trans Gender activist. In my experience that's not that funny and it doesn't reward you with any BAFTAs. I guess it doesn't involve any thinking. Just drain yourself of all joy and rant your pants off in a dark room, screaming into the digital void. 

Not as bad as Vladimir Putin, I grant you, who got it into his head to invade Ukraine, but still I would say it was a wrong turn to say the least.

Mrs Brown's Boys has a lot to answer for.

It's a choice I guess. Not the best choice to take in my experience. A trap I could have easily slipped into myself. I started using words like WOKE as a derogatory term, until it was pointed out to me(My kids actually) what sort of other people were cheering me on to say it. I then realised that Anger leads to hate, fear and foaming at the mouth if someone male chooses to wear a dress and lipstick on Only Connect.

Keep the peasants busy pointing fingers while we pick their pockets clean and burn the whole world to a crisp for the mighty dollar. I see the play.

I can see why me and my peers in Kent are so susceptible. My community was very much a racist one. Very homophobic and sexist. The anger and fear was there. The dislocated community's from London didn't provide that harmony we all needed. My brothers who are 10 years older than me were brought up with this. 

What set me apart was TV. My saviour. Sesame Street taught me my ABC and racial tolerance to other races and puppets. Star Trek taught me logic and again tolerance of different culture, albeit, pretend alien ones not only Tribbles. 

Although watching it back now, the sexual politics of that show were very questionable. Chekov was a sex pest dry humping rocks on the nearest planet he beamed down to. That missed my growing brain, thank goodness. Or maybe it was part of that great tapestry of misogyny. 

So am I racist? Well yes to a degree and homophobic and anti trans...all that. I think you have to own that shit.

Where I grew I have been conditioned to think like that. Being gay was some sort of sick illness., the person you didn't want to be. I don't think we really understood what it was. I knew Mr Humphreys on "Are you Being Served" was one. He seemed quite fun. At school it translated into the black spot. God things are so much better now.

Jokes about other races were common place and Trans just wasn't a thing. If it was I do believe people would have exploded. I recognise it's wrong to hold such views and I am working on climbing out that self destructive pit of despair. That's what it is. That sort of hatred and fear will rot you inside out.

Members of my family are in the pit. The conditioning stuck.

I have had to work on it. I think I'm doing a pretty good job, Having said that there is always room  for improvement. To do this I have had to leave people behind. I'm much better for it and so are my family.

I hope Graham drops that rancid stone he is carrying. The poor man needs help. I hope he finds some peace in the joyful comedy he used to write. Then we would all benefit.

 I forgive you Graham for not liking World of Cow. I hope that sentiment helps with your journey to wellness.

They are all Garys to me.

 It takes me a long time to make friends. I am very wary. I didn't really question it until a couple of weeks ago. I think I am suspicious of people because I got invited to peoples houses as a kid with some pretty weird family dynamics.

For instance. When I was a junior school, there was a kid. Let's call him Gary. All kids were called Gary in those days*

*For the purposes of my little memoire all kids will be called Gary. Of course not all kids were called Gary, that would be madness and make my system pointless. If you were called Gary I apologise, if I called you any other name under my system, people would realise that your real name was Gary and there would we be? Just be thankful I called you Gary to prevent people knowing your real name was Gary, Gary!*

*I will work out a name for the girls later. I don't feel there are any comparable female versions of the mighty Gary in that decade. Maybe Tracy? I'll have a think...Oooo Tina! Yes, I think we have it Ladies and gentlemen!

Gary invited me round to his home after school to play games. I didn't feel this was too bad an idea. He seemed like a good kid. Slightly chubby with a basin haircut, brown hair and freckles. I seem to remember a tank top and shorts. Your basic trainee bank clerk. Just add water and wait a few years. I don't remember his dad. I am imagining a balding short man who smokes a pipe and smell of Hornby train sets.

I do remember his mum, a short dumpy lady that had set scoops of ginger ridged hair framing her plump lip-sticked face like a honeycomb halo. Dresses that looked like sofa material. A thick flowery textile bent into shape by fashionable ship builders. She looked very comfortable to sit on, just throw on a few cushions and a cat.

Their house was nothing to write home about. Better than ours of course. I have the instinct that they owned it. There was nice wooden polished furniture and the slow ticking of expensive clocks. 

So it felt like the last place someone would try and knife you in the face.

And yet... during a game that I played defeating Gary, he drew a pen knife, a small Christmas cracker pen knife( Yes, we had knives in Christmas Crackers in those days) unfolded and pinned me to the ground trying his hardest to stab me in the face. His little freckled face all screwed up in an angry red eye popping snarl. I kicked him off and screamed for help. His Mum rescued me grabbing her basin haired bad loser. I simply made my excuses and left. Leaving a poor woman to deal with her troubled son. Not sure if I thanked Mrs Gary for their hospitality. My Mum always said I should do that. Oh well, I'm sure she got over it.

I don't think I did.

I steered clear of Gary from then on in. This was not an isolated behaviour from the little people I was surrounded by.

I do have a really early memory. We had a garden with a gate round the side alley. I must have been 4 or 5. Could have been less. The children of our estate were wild. Roaming around in packs. They banged on my gate. We had a nice front garden, which they had walked up to rap on. Climbing up on the fence like Jackals to laugh and taunt me.

My fortress of solitude was breached. However, my mum, let me go out and play with these demon kids. Some of which became my school friends. Gary in particular.

What the heck was my mum doing? On a couple of levels. 1st, she wasn't busy as far as I could tell. Her job at that point was to look after me. Telly was 2 and a half channels. BBC1, ITV and BBC 2 you could just see if it wasn't raining too hard through the static digital blizzard. 2nd, WHAT ARE YOU DOING JEAN, he's 4 to 5 years old and your letting him run about on the streets?

I remember one of the games Gary thought would be fun to play was a delightful game of "Chicken". If you are not fully up to speed with the rules "chicken" it involved the players (ME) to run in front of cars as they tootled down the street. Only for my first run, Gary got me to run in front of a Lorry. It felt like a big one.

I think it was quite close. He honked his horn. I ran and screamed. I got across the road experiencing bullet time as I traverse the tarmac. I blame my premature greyness on that one incident.

I didn't play chicken again. I was stupid, but not quite that stupid.

Bloody Garys!