by Lydon, John
I liked the clothes that my mum would put us in. I adored the tartan waistcoats, and the little checked suits with the jackets, shorts and waistcoats. I liked all of that. She dressed us well, very matchy-matchy with Jimmy, but that was all right. It was kind of like, our gang wear this, and that’s that. That wasn’t what other kids were wearing, so maybe that somehow crept into me, as being important to be individual.
I appreciated it very much over time, because I know how poor we were. I know how much effort it took to dress us at all. It was always there, that we couldn’t afford nothing. There’s almost a fond memory, too, of near-starvation once – no money at all, so all there was for dinner was one can of Heinz Mulligatawny between all of us. It was Dad’s homecoming present to us, so there we are, all sitting around the one can of Mulligatawny. I don’t think they make it any longer, and with good reason. It was like a curried soup, and at the time for us the curry in it was inedible – burny-hot. And so, ‘I’d rather starve.’ ‘Well, starve, den!’
You’d see big houses and things, but you wouldn’t have any relationship to it at all, didn’t understand it. It didn’t make sense to me that people could live in such large places. I always used to think, ‘What do they do with all them rooms? How do you sleep at night knowing there’s so many windows to lock?’
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 t
o 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.
I soon discovered that words were my weapons. I learned that I could get out of a tense situation and not be bullied, with comedy. Or the correct formulation of a sentence, that would leave them baffled and amused. And therefore you became accepted, as strangely strange but interesting. Of course, when I turned that artillery against the teachers, who I viewed as complete lazy fuck-ups, that interested the rest of the class very much. I became something of a spokesman of terror, with no viciousness or violence in it at all. I’d always make sure that my arguments were correct – it wouldn’t be just disruption for the sake of it. My ambition is to get to where I want, to achieve the correct information level, and then go on to the next problem.
I expected everybody else to tell me what was what, when I had no memory. It was vital to me that what they said was true, as I was desperate for the answer. I’m still like that; I want to believe what people tell me. I’m very open and trusting, but some people can push that too far, as we know in life – people who have their misguided selfish directions that they obscure from you.
The memories
all came back, almost photographically, over the years. That’s why I’m not prone to exaggeration about actual facts from my life. They’re so vital to me. I hinge on them. I don’t know what you would call the system, but you siphon out fantasy from reality. There’s a significant way of doing it. Even before, when I was having terrible visions and nightmares, before I went to hospital, I’d imagine a dragon at the end of the bed, and my mum and dad would be going, ‘There’s not a dragon there.’ And I knew they were right, there was no dragon there – I didn’t see it, but my brain was telling me it was there. You know your brain is tricking you. That’s why I would put something like what you would call a soul, as separate from the brain. The two talk to each other, so I see them as separate entities.
Quite frankly, I don’t have very much fantasy going on in my head. I don’t have room for it. Maybe that’s why I’m mistaken sometimes as being a bit blunt. I really don’t like time-wasting. It takes an enormous effort for me to get up in the morning, but absolutely tenfold to get to bed. I don’t like sleep. It frightens me, in case I don’t wake up, or don’t remember myself. That will be with me, I suppose, for the rest of my life. That won’t go away, so I’m rather prone to the ‘stay awake and alert’ side of life. I may’ve had some ‘assistance’ doing that, over the years, ha ha.
For a while, after leaving hospital, I’d still have visions – terrifying ones. There was one that reminded me of a priest. To this day, it still comes back every now and again. It’s very tall and thin, black hair, black eyes, and very, very evil, staring at me. It’s a real challenge: he comes sometimes in dreams – I have to force myself to confront him. If I do that, it goes away. But it’s very hard to get myself to do that. In a state of dreaming, you’ve got no control. But somehow or other I’ve managed to control my dreams. I’ve had years of practice.
