Stay with me. I am going to try something.
I am a man, but not the man. That, I can tell you, is definite but at least I am genuine. Like the song says, “I’ll never see my name in lights”, not even in my peripheral vision – such is life.
I was born during the swinging sixties on December 29th 1970 (no, I am correct). I have no idea whose was the first face I ever saw, certainly that of a complete stranger. In all likelihood I won’t recognise the last face I see either – it’s the way of the world.
I don’t really want to talk about my youth. Mostly because I have such a poor recollection of it. Or maybe it’s the start of some sort of god complex. It’s not encouraged to know about a deity’s upbringing. There were the usual posters on the wall, addiction to the statistics of sport, alphabetised records and puerile diary entries, but at least I never drew a phallus on anything.
I went to a private school. Fee paying. This sword of Damocles always hanging above me, ready to splice the Gordian knot that is my neck, if I should fail. I had to endure Latin and ancient Greek, whose legacy, no doubt, disturbs me to this day. It also led me to believe I was clever. Not that clever though. Not Oxford clever. Not Edinburgh clever. But Manchester clever.
School life gave structure. It introduced me to bullying, privilege and casual racism and for that I am eternally grateful. Strangely, I didn’t want to leave. Deep down I knew I wasn’t ready for the outside world. I’d been protected. I am not on the photograph though. I didn’t want to be remembered, well not then anyway.
I didn’t really want to talk about my youth, but you got me started. There are vague memories of jabbing a stick in a wasp’s nest. Wasps being pulled from my mouth and ears. The burning of the nest. Falling in a swimming pool, reaching out for the sides, an eternity, life flashing before my eyes – though at nine years of age, it couldn’t have been that entertaining. Being slapped by a teacher, being dragged across the ground by my underwear, slipping on ice and permanently damaging by knee, crying after being badgered by my father for being lazy, being kicked in the face – glasses shattered, being referred to as ‘gawpy and gormless’ by a chemistry teacher, playing a recorder and feeling irritation as a large beetle tried to pass my lips via the mouthpiece, a teacher throwing a desk at a pupil, a teenager trying to set me alight in an amusement arcade and no, it’s not time for that.
Music was the way out. Or, more precisely, heavy metal. I was the most unlikely looking rocker of all time. A rake of denim. Band T-shirt, I wanna be different, but within the safety of dressing the same as thousands of others. Swapping tapes. Acker dacker, Maiden and Purple. Safe.
They weren’t known as The Big Four then, that came later but they (and a few honourable mentions) were the first teetering steps of me being me. I have no real connection to the boy before 16, just a series of cine-film memories.
I would like to carry on, but the choking man is stopping me from concentrating and what would Lezka Ivkam have to say about that. I hope she got the jokes.
they left the bar, their breath instantly visible. The smell of cigarette smoke clung to them as they descended the steps to street level. Glad to be out of that deathtrap, they walked through the empty parking area. Flashbacks from the gig raced through his mind. Some solos were good, others, well, let’s hope nobody could hear them anyway over that crap P.A. He began to cough, throat slightly irritated. An upstairs room full of smokers and no windows and the only exit the thinnest, steepest spiral staircase that he’d ever had to lug gear up.
They had reached the main road. They stood at the crossing. Surrounding them was a series of disheveled looking buildings. This place was a no man’s land. Why had they deigned to play a gig here of all places? They hastened across the road, luckily it was only a five minute walk to the station and then a twenty minute journey home. Both supported by each other’s company. He wouldn’t have wanted her to be walking alone through this area, she not wanting him to be walking home alone with a guitar strapped to his back.
No cars, no people, just the occasional streetlight for company. They chatted about the performance. He looking for praise, she just glad that the evening had come to an end. Too many shitty late nights in smoke-filled venues. She’d been doing this for 28 years. She really didn’t want to come to this one but how do you break a ritual, he’d be upset.
As they talked they became aware of someone shouting behind them. They couldn’t understand the words, they were too far away and any that did filter through were not in their language. The shouting was getting a little clearer, it was definitely in German. Not the German they understood but proper Berlinerisch. It sounded agitated. Perhaps the cries of a drunken man or someone with some from of mental issues. It was getting louder. They turned to see what was going on. About twenty metres behind them a man was gesticulating at them. All they could make out was a an arm outstretched from a winter’s coat. The man continued towards them, aggressively. Their hearts sank. It was one of those moments that you spend life trying to avoid. This will be embarrassing. They turned in silent agreement, to carry on walking and pretend that they hadn’t seen or heard anything. She knew it was his fault. First of all for dragging her out to this part of town and then wandering around with a guitar on his back. That always attracts attention from the idiots.
The Absence Of Sleep 