I don’t remember much about being a kid. My childhood was a series of traumatic events that hung like enormous dark clouds over any of the good stuff. What I do know is that I was always a black sheep.
My earliest memory is being at a very posh private prep school called St Wystan’s in the Derbyshire village of Repton. One day, I almost strangled a kid called Toby, who was my best friend at the time. I must have been about five and I think we were just messing around. But it was a sign of the trouble to come.
My father had an engineering business in Repton and the fact that me and my brother and sister all went to private prep school suggests it was successful. But I feel like my childhood was stolen from me. My father was very Victorian and very disciplined. He was never an affectionate man, although I don’t blame him for that, that was just the norm for fathers in those days. But he was also a workhorse and he expected us to work as hard as he did. We weren’t allowed to be normal kids, like our friends were. When other kids were out playing, my father would have us helping out with all kinds of stuff, whether it was building walls, sawing wood, mowing lawns or taking the dogs for marathon walks. We had a big house, with loads of land and lots of really steep banks. Once a month, my brother and I would go out and cut the lawns with a Flymo attached to a piece of rope, lowering it down the banks and pulling it back up again. Once we’d done that, we’d chop a load of firewood. Then we’d get on our bikes, cycle to my grandad’s house about six miles away to cut the grass in his orchard, before cycling home again. That was a normal weekend. At times it felt like I was my dad’s employee rather than his son.
My dad was always extremely generous at Christmas. That was his way of showing love. But that didn’t stop him buying us some pretty weird presents. One year, there were two presents under the tree, for me and my brother, and you could tell by the shape that they were the same thing. When we unwrapped them, we saw that they were axes. I was only about 12. We said to each other, ‘Why has Dad got us axes? We’re a bit old to be playing cowboys and Indians.’ Two days later, we were out chopping down trees for him. The house was enormous and had stables, although we didn’t have horses. Instead, the stables were filled with kindling and logs for the winter, and my dad would have us chopping that wood all weekend.
One weekend, one of my mates was supposed to come round the house but never turned up. At school the following Monday, I said to him, ‘What happened to you?’
‘Mate, I came round and your dad had me chopping wood for about two hours. When he decided I was finished, he told me you weren’t coming out anyway.’ My dad hadn’t even told me he had been there. A story like that gets around a school pretty fast. Soon, nobody was coming to visit.
While I don’t remember having a lot of fun growing up, I was always a risk-taker and getting into trouble. On a holiday in Lyme Regis, I went off for a walk with my brother and sister and just when my mum and dad were beginning to wonder where we’d got to, they heard this commotion coming from the harbour wall. They wandered over to see what was going on and found me launching myself off the wall and into the sea, while crowds of older kids stood around cheering. I was only three years old. Another year in Lyme Regis, a big fishing hook went through the top of my leg. But because it was my favourite hook, the only thing I cared about was that they’d have to cut it off. And there was the time in France when I dropped a couple of bottles of lemonade in a shop and they exploded onto my legs. When I returned to the caravan, my legs were caked in blood and my poor mum was hysterical.
When I was about seven, I watched a Tom and Jerry cartoon in which Jerry electrocuted Tom and you could see all his bones lit up inside him. I thought that looked brilliant and wondered if it would work in real life. So I went upstairs to my bedroom, took the bulb out of my bedside lamp and stuck my thumb in the socket. The lights all over the house started flickering and my mum could hear me from downstairs, going off like a car alarm. When she burst into my bedroom, my hair was standing up on end and smoking, as was my thumb. I’ve still got a lump on my thumb from that incident today.
There was also the time my brother and sister locked me in a suitcase and stuffed me in a cupboard. I managed to escape, fell out of the cupboard and landed on top of a Tonka toy, splitting my nose open. Oh, and I almost forgot: I was run over twice. The first time I was on my roller skates, went between two parked cars and got hit by a Granada, dislocating my shoulder and trapping all the nerves. I could have lost my arm, because the blood supply was cut off. The second time, I was on my BMX, showing off in front of some girls. I almost feel sorry for that chimp: there she was, minding her own business on her afternoon off, and then a mentalist like me came wandering into her life.
I’d be the kid who went hunting through the house for Christmas presents. My brother and sister, who are both older than me, would say, ‘What are you doing that for? We don’t want to ruin Christmas.’ My parents would have all sorts of systems in place, everything but the laser trip-wire, but I’d ransack the house and find it all. At the same time, I’d hate my brother and sister’s birthdays, because I was a Christmas baby and it never seemed like I had a birthday. My parents ended up buying me a present as well, just so I didn’t kick off.
We all played together and were close, but apart from the fact that I looked like my brother, it was like I was a different breed. Justin, the middle sibling, was the one we took the piss out of for being a swot. When I was getting some mad game for Christmas, he was getting a computer. Personality-wise, I was closer to my sister Ashley, although we were always quite different. But it was after I was attacked by the chimpanzee that I really started going off the rails and those differences became more obvious.
The day that turned out to be such a pivotal moment in my life had started so innocuously. It was a boiling hot morning in the summer holidays and my brother and I were stuck for something to do. James Stafford, my brother’s best mate who lived a few streets away, knocked us up and asked if we wanted to go swimming. Mum got our kit ready and soon we were making our way to the baths.
Crossing the Ferry Bridge over the River Trent, we noticed some big tops being set up on some waste ground. The circus had come to town. Swimming was suddenly out of the window, because when you’re a ten-year-old kid, the circus coming to town is just about the best thing ever. My heart started racing and our pace quickened.
We asked the guy on the entrance if we could see the animals, to which he replied, ‘Yeah, of course, all the animals are on chains. You boys will be fine.’ Inside the first big top we came to was an elephant. Inside the second were some little monkeys, who showed me their fangs when I got too close. I was in my own little world, and at some point became separated from my brother and James.
Then I came across the baby chimpanzee in the clearing. What happened next would impact the rest of my life in unthinkable ways. That attack lasted such a short amount of time but was like a tiny stone being thrown into a big pond, causing ripples that last to this day.
Having seen off the chimp, I experienced a moment of elation, followed by a burst of relief. But the relief was short-lived. When I looked down, I could see blood spattered all over me. Then the whole place erupted.
I was discovered by one of the circus workers, and I can still picture her face as she placed her hand on the back of my arm. It was a look of horror, partly because of the severity of my wounds and partly, I suspect, because she knew there could be a legal case against the circus. Part of my right forearm had been torn away. There was stringy white muscle and what I assume were tendons hanging off it. It looked like a bone that had been slobbered over by a dog all day. My other arm was covered in bites. I was not a pretty sight.
Before I knew it, I was in an ambulance being rushed to a local hospital. Meanwhile, James, who was a bit of a chubby lad, was running back to my house to tell my mum the news. He’d never run so fast and probably hasn’t done since. When my mum answered the door, James was standing there red-faced and out of breath. My poor mu
m had been enjoying a rare day off work, kid-free, and suddenly there was someone standing on her doorstep informing her that her son had been attacked by a chimpanzee. How on earth do you react to that? I think it’s safe to say that she was somewhat taken aback.
I was turned away from the hospital, presumably because they didn’t have the correct facilities – to be fair, chimp attacks were quite rare in Burton-on-Trent in 1980 – and at the second hospital they made a complete hash of the treatment. They should have done a skin graft. Instead, they put stitches all around the wound and yanked it tight. It was never going to heal like that. When they removed the bandage a couple of weeks later, the doctor cut the first stitch and the wound burst open, like a badly packed kebab. But all they did was re-stitch and re-dress it and send me on my way.
About a week later, we went to France for a family holiday. That was the worst holiday ever. Every day, I’d have to watch my brother and sister playing in the sea, while I sat on the beach with a plastic bag over my arm. We were staying in a caravan and one day my father was maniacally cleaning up. As he was going about his business, he picked up an unusual smell. He couldn’t work out what it was, it was driving him mad. He was traipsing up and down the caravan getting stressed, putting bleach down the toilet and the sink. I was lying out on the sofa, reading a book, when he homed in on my arm like a bloodhound and started sniffing me. Suddenly, he took my arm, removed the bag and unwound the bandage. And there, on my arm, were all these green spots. Gangrene had set in, followed by panic.
My dad called a taxi, bundled me in the back and we set off for Saint-Tropez. About an hour later, we arrived at the surgery and they got me straight into a room and onto a bed. The doctor told my dad to get on top of me and hold me down, and suddenly my dad was on the bed with his knee in my chest. It was like a scene from an 18th-century battle, back when surgeons would climb on top of casualties and chop limbs off without anaesthetic.
The doctor grabbed what looked like a scrubbing brush, covered it in ethanol and started scouring my arm, as if it was a frying pan caked in burnt-on food. I can still hear my screaming now. They must have been able to hear it as far away as Paris. It was pure torture, almost as traumatic as being attacked by the chimp. And it felt like my dad was one of my torturers.
After I’d been patched up and dosed up with antibiotics, the doctor led us to a different part of the surgery, a beautiful room with high, painted ceilings. Probably because he felt a bit guilty about what he’d just done to his son, the doctor introduced my dad to a glamorous lady with a blond beehive and they kissed each other cheek to cheek. No doubt, my dad also threw in the odd line of Del Boy French. This woman was stunning, but I wasn’t interested. I was a ten-year-old boy who had just been scrubbed free of gangrene, which was the worst pain I’d ever experienced. All I wanted at that moment was a hug, some much-needed love from my father. But it never came. Not then, not later.
My dad paid the bill, which was probably a horrific amount of money, we said our goodbyes, and I noticed that while my dad didn’t seem at all interested about what I’d just been through, he seemed absolutely elated about something. When we were out on the street, he looked down at me with wide, star-struck eyes and said, ‘Son, I can’t believe it. I just met Bridget Bardot.’
I had no idea who this woman was. It was like some weird black comedy: one scene I was being attacked by a chimpanzee, the next I was having my gangrenous arm scrubbed, the next I was meeting a famous French film star. Or at least my dad was. When Dad told my mum the story, he was overcome with excitement. It seemed to me as if the chimp attack and hospital trauma had all been worth it, because he had got to meet Bridget Bardot.
After leaving prep school, I was sent to Abbot Beyne, which was a comprehensive in Burton. I looked back at my time at St Wystan’s, which was a feeder school for the prestigious Repton, and realised just how privileged I’d been. Even now, I have a passion for that kind of private schooling, the kind that pushes its pupils. My brother, sister and I were quite posh, and that made us stick out like sore thumbs in state school. I wasn’t really in with the cool kids, although I was comfortable with that. I had a few friends at school and the little clique I was part of was high enough up the food chain that I never got bullied. We were all kind of well-to-do, from middle-class families with nice houses. It turned me into a bit of a closet snob and reinforced the idea that I was different. Not only that, I liked the fact that I was different.
I was the only pupil to wear a double-breasted blazer when most of the other kids were happy to wear a blazer with the arms and pockets hanging off. I got my love of clothes from my dad, who always looked impeccable. Actually, I didn’t share this trait just with Dad, because my step-brother Mark, from my dad’s first marriage, was also a smart dresser. Mark always looked cool, had a pretty girlfriend and even drove a Capri Ghia. I looked up to him and we always stayed close.
Me and my mates were all into the Mod and Ska scene – the Jam, Madness, the Beat. I had this beautiful pair of black-and-white shoes that I had to hide from my dad, because he had a very clear idea of how I should and shouldn’t dress. I’d sneak clothes out of the house in a plastic bag and get changed around the corner. But when I look back at old photos now, I realise I didn’t really look much like Paul Weller or Suggs. To be honest, I just looked a bit pathetic.
I was good at some things as a kid, including art. One day, my brother bought the 12-inch version of ‘Relax’ by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, the one featuring a muscly bloke with a woman on his back, with pointy tits and wearing thigh-high boots. I drew it and thought it was brilliant. A few days later, I came home from school and couldn’t find my drawing. My dad had found it and torn it up, because it was sexual and he found it disgusting.
Other times, he’d give me a good hiding. It was just slaps with the back of his hand and I don’t resent him for that. You could argue some kids nowadays could do with something similar. But at the time, so much resentment had built up that I’d come to despise him. After another incident, the details of which slip my mind, I came out of my bedroom in tears and said, ‘I fucking hate that cunt.’ Unbeknown to me, he was standing on the landing. I backed into a corner, thinking I was going to get a beating, but instead he gave me a cuddle.
It was a bizarre moment, the only time I remember anything like that happening and harbouring any affection for him. Unfortunately, it felt like he was uncomfortable doing it, so it was hard to receive. When someone who’s normally cold suddenly starts hugging you or saying nice things, your natural reaction is to think that something’s not quite right.
Then, when I was 13, my dad upped and left, just disappeared one day without any explanation. I’m told he phoned Mum from the airport, told her he was leaving and wouldn’t be coming back again. It was extremely traumatic for my mum, especially because her parents, who I had also been very close to, had recently died within three months of each other. She was lumbered with three kids, a big house and a crippling mortgage, because my dad refused to give her any money. Mum tells me now that she was having to steal toilet roll from work to make ends meet. I wrote my dad letters, telling him we couldn’t afford to go out or buy clothes, but he wasn’t interested.
My mum never bad-mouthed him in front of us, but I later learned that he’d always been a bit of a player. You can try to read too much into relationship breakdowns. Sometimes it’s as simple as your dad meeting someone else and deciding that being with her would be more fun. The grass is always greener. When times got tough, he decided that the best solution was to walk out, close the door and disappear. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I’d end up doing something similar.
I didn’t share my mum’s distress at my dad’s departure. As far as I was concerned, it was the best thing that had ever happened to me. It was like a massive weight had fallen from my shoulders. That’s not how most kids react when their father walks out. But just because I thought Dad leaving was great, that didn’t mean it was good for everyon
e around me. Suddenly the shackles were off, and I could live as I wanted to. That meant complete and utter mayhem.
3
LOSING BATTLE
Everything in the Royal Marines was done to extremes. People were forever trying to prove themselves, taking things as close to what was acceptable as possible, which often meant going miles over it. It wasn’t uncommon to see a load of Marines knocking ten bells of shit out of civvies down the local pub. But that wasn’t enough, they’d have to be doing it dressed as old women. I didn’t get enjoyment out of fighting, that was never really my thing, but I still had immense pride in being part of the brotherhood.
We always said that the Royal Marines is the hardest gang in the world. When you were together with the lads, in whatever situation, you knew that there would always be someone to your left, someone to your right, someone above and below you. I loved being part of one of the military’s inner circles, but I also liked being a stray, floating in and out of the group without anyone taking offence or questioning my loyalty.
When I joined 45 Commando, we had what was called ‘rig’, which was what we were ‘supposed’ to wear on a night out. It consisted of jeans, a T-shirt and desert boots. It was effectively a uniform, but I’d never wear it. As far as I was concerned, I did my job, but it was up to me what I did after that. The commanding officers weren’t bothered what I wore, but there was some friction from some of the old sweats, the guys who had been there longer and thought a fellow Marine having his own identity was a bit suspicious.
I was 19 when I went on my first tour to Northern Ireland in 1990. After weeks of beat-up training, we were sent to Bessbrook Mill in County Armagh, which was where some of the worst violence of the Troubles took place and was bona fide bandit country. Every British soldier in Northern Ireland had a price on their head, and that price was a lot higher for a green (Royal Marine) or red (Parachute Regiment) beret. Not that I cared about any of that. I’d joined the military to see action. I was wide-eyed with excitement at the possibility of coming into contact with the IRA. To be honest, anything less would have been a disappointment.
Break Point Page 3
