Anger is an Energy: My Life Uncensored (4 page)

I loved the summers, because it meant we could be out all day long, with no need to go home at all – in fact, even forget that was home. And be so bitterly upset when it got dark in the
evening. You’d hear the yelling and the screaming, ‘Wherr
aaiir
ye?’ There were bombsites from the war, and thousands of kids running rampant in them. They were absolutely
like adventure playgrounds, thrilling. Amazing, a wonderful thing, a bombsite, to a kid. Never get bored, always something new to unravel and explore, and of course the factories too.

Bloody hell, at five, six, seven, trying to break into the factories
was thrilling. The whole area around Benwell Road and Queensland Road was still all blown up from the
war but they were putting factories in and around it. There’d be a whole bunch of us – everything you did in them days, there were twenty kids involved – and we’d build
makeshift ladders out of bricks from the bombsite, to climb up the walls. Once you were on the roof, everything was easy, you’d just drop in. It was a challenge, and I liked that.

There was a Wall’s Ice Cream factory at the top of Queensland Road, and that was a magnet to try and break in there, but it was impossible – it was too modern, and had iron shutters
and grilles and padlocks. Instead, you’d wait for the vans when they were loading, and when the workers would go in to fill up the trolley and bring it back, you’d try to nick a lolly.
Every and any way to nick a Raspberry Split – that was the lolly of the day. Wall’s ice cream inside and raspberry ice on the outside – absolutely the most delicious lolly, and
anything
to get one for nothing.

The ice they used to pack the ice creams in between – it wasn’t liquid nitrogen, but something like that; there’s some chemical in it to keep them cold while transferring
between the factory and the truck. One time, for a dare, I put my tongue on what I thought was an ice block, and it wasn’t, and it took a layer off. ‘Go on, I dare you to lick
it!’ ‘Uuuurrhh, I’ll do anything, I’m mad!’ ‘Run, here they come!’ ‘Ulluullulllulleh!’

Another time, I got caught breaking in with my cousin Peter, Jimmy and two other kids. These coppers dragged Jimmy and me back to the house, and they must have seen the anxiety on our faces. My
dad answered the door, and they said, ‘Are these your kids? We caught them breaking in . . .’ He went, ‘Therr not mine, nottin’ to do wi me!’ It was obvious they were
nodding and winking at each other, and the police go, ‘Well, we don’t know what to do with them, maybe we should take them up north and leave them there?’ Oh, the sense of
abandonment! I cried my eyes out. It sounded very real.

As adults, I suppose they were having a laugh about it, both
sides. It was only an empty garage we got caught in, there was nothing in there. It was a smart way of telling
you, ‘Stay out of what’s not yours.’ And, ‘Don’t get caught’ – that was always my dad’s bottom line. ‘If yer goanna do stupid t’ings,
don’ get caught – don’ fockin’ embarrass me!’

So we were eventually let in, but made to stand outside for a while, and think about what we were doing. It worked. It ended the ‘letting ourselves into other people’s
property’ phase. Who knows where that would’ve led? It’s a slippery slope, thievery and burglary and all of that, and presuming other people’s things are your right.

But that’s how London was. Not a lot of cars, empty streets, street lighting was poor, and there were just hundreds and hundreds of kids unsupervised, getting up to God knows what on
bombsites. But not really unsupervised, it was, ‘Get oat an’ lerrrrn, an’ when ye com’ home, don’ bring da police wit’ ye!’

Meningitis came from the rats. They were all over the place. They piss on the ground and, as rodents do, drag their bums leaving a urine trail. Meanwhile, I’d make paper
boats and float them in the potholes in our back yard, so I’d touch the water, and then touch my mouth, and that’s how I got infected.

It didn’t come on overnight. I’d had very bad headaches, dizzy spells, fainting fits, and imagining things that I knew weren’t there, like green dragons breathing fire. That
was the awful thing about it, watching myself inside myself, panicking over something I knew wasn’t there. But I could not stop my body doing that. Screaming fits of total fear.

The night before I went into hospital, I had a pork chop, and I’ve never been able to eat pork chops since. I absolutely can’t go near ’em. Even the smell. I don’t mind
crispy bacon, but a pork chop – no! Because I blamed everything on that, for many a year, so I ended up convincing myself that it was the pork what did it! How very healthy of me.

The next morning, when my mother thought, ‘Oh gosh, this is getting bad,’ the doctor came and I blacked out while he was in the house. The next thing I knew I
was in an ambulance, and I blacked out again, and then months later I woke up in a hospital. I was in a total coma for six or seven months. Once I went into that, that was it, there was nothing
that went on at all.

When I came to, I remember them waving fingers in front of my eyes, going, ‘Follow my finger.’ I deliberately didn’t, because even though I was really seriously ill, I thought
I should feign illness on top. What on earth convinced me to do that? But I remember doing it at the time, so I was always a cheeky little sod, even to myself. Quietly malevolent, even in
illness!

I was in the Whittington Hospital, which always made me think of Dick Whittington, a positive association. I was on a huge ward of forty kids, many worse off than me, so self-pity was not an
option. There was a great library in the middle, loads of fascinating books, some way beyond my capabilities, but that just enticed me more. It’s odd what goes and what doesn’t. I
hadn’t forgotten how to read, yet I couldn’t talk – language was gone. I’d be thinking I was formulating words, but they told me after I was just making noises.

Sometimes, as much as three times a day, they’d drain the fluid in my spinal column – the ‘lumbar punch’. ‘This is gonna feel like a punch up your lumbar,
John!’ The needle was very painful as they’d insert it in the base of the spine, and then when they’d draw the fluid out, you could feel it all the way up your back and into your
head. Absolutely nauseating. I have a complete fear of needles from that. I hate them. I recommend, before anyone becomes a heroin addict, they go get a lumbar punch – that’ll change
their mind about it. A most dreadful thing, and so embarrassing too, even at seven and a half, to have something like that prodded up your rear. I always felt my bottom was my own, and I
don’t like bottom-watchers. They’d quite literally pin me down, the nurses, while they did that. I’d be so screaming in fear of it, because I knew the pain that was about to
come.

It definitely had a long-term effect on my posture. It curved my spine – if they drain too much fluid, it can do that. I was supposed to then walk around with a
broom handle between my arms to arch my back and make me stand up straight but, to this day, if I try to stand up completely dead straight, I feel very dizzy; it cuts off the blood supply to the
brain, so I’d rather walk around like Richard III there.

It also totally affected my eyesight. I had to wear glasses for a long time, but in the end I couldn’t bear them. I’ve got very good distance eyesight; I can see far away very
clearly, but up close it’s a torment for me even to clip my nails, because it’s all a blur, so I wear glasses for that. I have to glare to focus on people. Lucky me, huh? People think,
‘That scary cunt!’ Ha ha.

After another four or five months recovering in hospital, I’d become totally institutionalized. I got comfortable not knowing anything. That’s a condition that, thank God, the
doctors, my parents and the whole lot of them just wouldn’t tolerate. My mum and dad dragged me out of there kicking and screaming. They told me that they were my mum and dad, and I had to
believe them. ‘You belong to us, you’re our son, we love you.’ ‘Oh! How do I know that?’

Being back home was very confusing, because I just didn’t understand where this was. It was rather like being in a waiting room, and forgetting what you’re there for – you
know, when you’re left so long waiting that you forget why you’re there – or like trying to sign on the dole, that kind of abandoned feeling. I couldn’t adjust; it took an
awful long time. Why was I here with these strangers? It wasn’t making any sense. The only way to deal with me, because I was in a constant state of agitation and panic, was to quietly try to
get me to think what it was that was bothering me, and why I wasn’t recognizing things, and that I
did
belong there.

Oddly, I never felt out of place with my brothers. I instantly felt right with them; they never acted like there was something wrong
with me, which was what all the adults
did. It was good – Jimmy would say things like, ‘Where have you been? You’ve been away a long time!’ And then the answer was, ‘I don’t know.’ He just
thought I must’ve gone on a long holiday alone.

Once I began to accept my parents, it was like opening the door in my mind. It just clicked in my head, and the memories started popping back. It took an awful long time for the information to
come through, but come through it did, in bits and pieces, and always it was a sheer joy. I’d run to my mum – I couldn’t wait to tell her that I’d remembered something, and
that it made sense what she was telling me.

When I accepted that they were who they said they were – what an emotional breakdown, and an eye-opener too. They talk about Catholic guilt – but having doubted your own parents is a
guilt that far surpasses anything religion can plonk on you. An insane guilt. But it was so wonderful to realize they weren’t lying. They really were who they said they were. What a fantastic
revelation!

I still didn’t believe them for years afterwards, though, that I really did have to go to school. I never believed that. I’m making light of it, but I’m deadly serious; this is
how an eight-year-old, when he’s just come out of hospital and doesn’t remember fuck-all about himself, will be. Many a time I’d forget the way home, and just wander aimlessly.
I’d walk into shops. Luckily, because of the community spirit, they’d go, ‘Oh, you’re the sick one, we’ll show you where you live.’ But then you build up a
resentment to that. ‘I’m not sick!’

In terms of rehabilitation, the National Health Service didn’t supply any usefulness at all – quite literally nothing. My mum and dad told me that all they were advised by the
hospital was to never let up on me, never mollycoddle me, or baby me, because if I fell into a lazy-arse way about it, I’d never resolve my issues. And being agitated got me to think.
Agitation’s a powerful tool sometimes.

You were more or less abandoned by the state, and you were definitely abandoned by the school. So much happens in a year –
you’re so behind. Regardless of
losing your mind, you’re behind anyway by a year. Everything becomes an escalated problem. Trying to blend back in was very difficult. That was a friendless first year, very friendless, and
kind of lonely, because of the kids’ attitude – ‘Oh he’s sick, keep away from him!’

I hated school breaks and lunch because it meant I had nothing to do. No one would talk to me; the rumour ran around the school that I was a bit ‘out there’, and so that’s
exactly where I found myself, cast out on the outside. I know what that loneliness is, it’s very, very fucking damaging. The only people that talked to me at break time were the dinner
ladies. They were very kind Irish women – ‘We heard you were ill – how are you?’ I didn’t even really remember being ill, just – ‘Why am I here?’

Just to give myself something to do, I thought I’d stay late and join the Cub Scouts. Hated it! Hated bloody sitting in a circle and going, ‘Dob dob dib!’ It meant nothing to
me. To me it was very antisocial because it was full of rule books and you’ve got to get this uniform, and when you earn this badge you get so many merit points. I realized within about half
an hour that this was an absolutely pointless waste of my life. There was the scout master who was, well, a creep, coming across very much like a priest, dark and shadowy. You know, that smile they
all had, you could see the gritting of the teeth. I only attended the one night.

One of the nuns one day called me ‘Dummy Dum-Dum’. That nickname stuck around the school. It’s deeply shocking, what them bitches put on you. From the boy who could read and
write at four, to Dummy Dum-Dum. It was a real challenge to break through that, but I did. Within a year or two, I was back up in the A grade.

Those fuck-arse hateful nuns made life punishing, so I educated myself. I just got on with it. If there was a book about, I’d pick it up and read. I
loved
reading. Not newspapers,
they bore me. It’s yesterday’s opinion – I’ve always felt that. No, it was books, books, books – anything and everything. After my illness, I got onto a course at the
local library after school, and I’d go there and paint
till nine at night, then take home a load of books and read them until I fell asleep, fighting off sleep all the
time. I had that constant fear of not waking up, or waking up and not knowing who I was again. I tell you, that’s absolutely the worst thing that can happen.

What I learned is, the harder you work, the more you get. That’s been my experience, and I absolutely don’t mind hard work. In fact, I love hard work almost as much as doing nothing
at all. I like my life to switch between those two things. When I was about ten, a friend of the family let me have a go running a minicab service every weekend. Even though I was still trying to
remember who the hell I was, I was smart enough for that.

I loved that job, absolutely loved the pressure, the stress. You really had to have a very clear, concise memory. You’re running up to sixteen drivers all at once, and you have to remember
where all of them are, and ring them up, and talk to them on the radio, and book jobs in advance. I loved it, always in a state of near-collapse. Just on the border of messing up – but,
never! The responsibility of it – I really felt proud about myself, and that helped me no end.