Peter Stringfellow – as in, all the qualities of Peter Stringfellow except for the ability to operate a lap-dancing franchise – with a sprinkling of Crocodile Dundee thrown in for good measure: all the qualities of Crocodile Dundee except for the ability to handle aquatic reptiles. He negotiates visitors and students around Venezuelan beauty spots and organises parties for stinkingly rich types who’ve lost their imagination (there’s always a price to pay).
At school he was popular with the ladies, possessing golden curls, a cherubic countenance and the kind of mischievous streak that weak-willed females are fond of labelling ‘irresistible’. Girls in my class would spell out his name on the back of their hands and along the length of their chubby arms, often dispensing with the love heart and arrow. Just the name was enough: Chris Patterson. The Scots like things simple (porridge is oats, water and salt remember?). Then they’d ask me, ‘How come yir brar’s such a ride and yir so minging?’*
As usual, there was no hole in the ground to swallow me up – even a pothole or drain would have done just fine. Ponytailed schoolgirls are the CIA overlords of playground terrorism, and they’d sent me to Guantanamo Bay. Hopefully, that meant things couldn’t get any worse. And on the plus side, when I received my first compliment from a member of the opposite sex, 24 years later, I felt just like Hitler must have felt when Mein Kampf was published.
* To this day, a schoolgirl with a Scottish accent can reduce me to a burbling wreck.
Changing nappies was a pain. My mum had been wined and dined by a tweed-jacketed trailer salesman throughout my early teens. Then they decided to get a place together and she became pregnant. My mum loved kids. She had two sons by him, Sam and Jools (now two wise giants, mellow as yoga masters), making five lanky sons in total but sadly no daughters. I found being around babies a surprisingly effective way to soothe the angst of adolescence. Unfortunately, being around their father was only a surprisingly effective way to annoy the shit out of me.
For the purposes of this book, I’ll call this new man ‘Sir’, because he had a thing about formality: knocking on doors (‘You have to ask permission before you enter my lounge-room’), sitting at tables (‘All joints [elbows] on the table shall be carved’) and leaving tables (‘You can leave the table, but I don’t know if you may’).
He was also very tight, even by Scottish standards, though he had a fair bit of money coming in. I could almost empathise when he’d peel an orange in his pocket – so he wouldn’t have to share it with anyone else, of course – but I’ll admit even I was shocked when one day I discovered him peeling a potato in his pocket. Then he’d think he was being nice on a Saturday morning by letting Mum have a lie-in, but as far as we were concerned being asked, ‘Would you like an egg or a tomato on your toast?’ wasn’t the greatest way to kick-start a weekend.
Mr Miserly wasn’t aware that most children would rather visit the dentist than the opera, and so, in the early part of the courtship, we’d be forced to endure three hours of Don Giovanni for an interval choc-ice – ironically, hastening our next visit to the dentist. Years later, when Brian May asked my band to come and see his musical We Will Rock You, I remembered the paint-stripping boredom of bourgeois theatreland and made my excuses.
His son from a previous marriage was Phil Kay, the wild, free-spirited Scottish comedian who bounced through TV screens bollock-naked on his short-lived Phil Kay Feels Channel 4 TV show back in the late nineties. Both of us happen to have protruding jug ears. We’d spend the weekends together playing football, our nicknames being ‘Scottish Cup’ and ‘European Cup’, in reference to the respective trophy’s generous handles – better than being called ‘World Cup’ for having no ears, I suppose. Phil’s trademark has always been maintaining a positive mindset at whatever the cost – he’ll tread barefoot in fresh cow shit before breezily declaring, ‘That’s a nice warm feeling.’
Phil’s father lost the plot with a spectacular nervous breakdown, all those deceptions came crashing down around him, and my endlessly resourceful and unlucky mother had to bring up sons (a total of five now) on her own again, teaching Italian evening classes and tour-guiding in the holidays. His dad may have been the tightest man in all of Scotland, but now Phil is the funniest man in Scotland. The connection is obvious. Don’t worry if you come across a stingy person in your environment. It’s just God’s way of developing your sense of humour.
How To Talk To People Nobody Talks To
I started secondary school in Edinburgh as a fairly timid pupil. Having only recently arrived in the capital from the backwaters of Tayside, I was the archetypal big-eared boy from down the farm, and to make matters worse I had a chronic stammer. On my first day at the Royal High, I didn’t know anyone. Picking up on my obvious discomfort, three juvenile delinquents from the depressed housing schemes of Clermiston took it upon themselves to look out for me – BJ, Bampot and Numpty are the names I’ll give them for the purpose of this book.
Appropriately enough for the founding members of the Bog Squad, it didn’t take long for them to flush me out. Three days in, BJ pissed all over me ‘for a laugh’ and I took it as a sign (wasn’t there something about that in the Bible?). My life might have turned out differently if I hadn’t, so I really should be grateful for those golden showers in retrospect.
Numpty was subsequently expelled at 15 for punching the PE teacher in the face. Then a pensioner suffered a cardiac arrest and died after chasing Bampot down the street for putting a lit firework through his letterbox. Some heartless pupils compounded the tragedy, plastering ‘BAMPOT MUST DIE!’ all over the corridor walls. As for BJ, with a nickname like that I was just relieved the companionship hadn’t gone any further.
Gordon Wright had the right idea. He just mumbled. My mum used to go mad when he called: ‘I can’t understand anything he’s saying! Is it cool to do that, Franny? Is that why you’ve started mumbling too?’ After Numpty, Bampot and BJ, it made perfect sense to seek companionship with a more withdrawn type. There was less chance of them soaking you in wee, for a start.
We bonded over listening to music, playing darts, watching football and communicating with speech disorders. I’m sure Gordon had confidence in me because of my stutter – sometimes, if you feel insecure, when you find someone who’s more insecure then somehow it makes you feel better. It soothes your soul.
Since then, I have found myself subconsciously gravitating towards what you might call ‘loners’. And I’m glad that I developed this habit, because years later I befriended my umpteenth shy misfit and he ended up being the front man in our band. His name was Justin Hawkins.
It was strange the way my mind operated 20-odd years ago. I don’t recall planning to study History and English Literature at Bath College of Further Education. I suppose it would have been because my grades stank. In the event, Bath was twee and harmless, like a pretty old lady – the land that time forgot. It was just about random enough for me.
When I got there, no one understood my Scottish accent, so they christened me ‘Hamish’. Soon, however, I withdrew from student activities, dropping out early in the second year. I’m never comfortable going through the motions as a rule – unless I’m moving my bowels,