Being 11 in 1977, The year of the Silver Jubilee

Mum had decided that we needed to be better at tidying our bedrooms. I was not good at this. For some reason tidying my bedroom was something I never had a desire to be the best at. She also decided that for some pocket money I could tidy hers. With hindsight I think the sweep children of Georgian England would have found tidying my mums bedroom more difficult than getting soot out a chimney. After I had tidied my room, sometimes she would check by simply popping her head in the room and nodding in approval. I soon learned that the best time to tidy your bedroom and get it verified by ‘Herr mum’ would be when she liked me and hated everyone else. If it was my turn to be the loved one I could get a thumbs up for the room. Sometimes you had no choice. My bedroom would require repair at a time when I was on her most hated list. The routine would normally follow a similar sequence of events.

“Bri, you have twenty minutes to tidy your room, then I’m coming to check” oh shit I’d think and start rummaging round, putting things in their place. I would get it finished and then the boss, being mum would come to inspect. This was the mum who didn’t tidy her own mess. The mum who never washed any dishes. The mum who never ever did any shopping. The mum who rarely cooked, unless it could be dropped into a deep fat fryer. The mum, who either sat on a settee or slept in a bed for 23 hours a day, would come and decide whether my bedroom was tidy enough. It went as follows. She would make her initial check from the middle of the room. Scanning like the hands of a clock slowly circumnavigating from the window and three hundred and sixty degrees later be back at the window. Then she would check under the bed. Then the cupboards. Then the drawers. She would then take a drawer out of the chest and examine how well it was kept inside. I eventually started leaving something out on purpose to speed this charade up because once I knew her mood I knew what the result would be.

This one time I had left a model toy on the dresser as I had made it and wanted to show it off like an ornament. It was a small airfix model of a spitfire airplane that I had made. I was very proud of it and was looking forward to painting it. This was enough, this was the litmus. This one stuck in my mind because she went that stage further. What would normally happen is she would erupt and her cavernous mouth would start yelling, coming to less than an inch of your face. I don’t think I had mentioned this before but when she shouted, she didn’t just shout, she held her mouth within an inch of your face, spittle flying all over you while she abused your parentage. Have you ever seen a prison film where the guard enters the cell of an inmate? Warden behind him. You know the warden is the bastard. The guard doing his bosses dirty work. He would enter the cell and turn everything upside down. The metal bed would be flipped over and the mattress would end up in the centre of the cell. Then an arm would fly across a shelf and bring everything crashing down onto of the mattress. Eventually everything that was possessed by the prisoner would be in a heap on the floor. His whole life in a two-foot heap, not including the mattress. Then he would be in more trouble because of the mess. Even though this guy was in prison he wasn’t the bad guy. This was my mum did. But on this occasion she opened my window and struggled with my mattress and eventually hurled it out. Somehow managing to bend it in half and work it through the opening. I was impressed with her strength. Then my toys, then my clothes. All thrown out the window onto the grass below. Very soon my bedroom consisted of a single bed base, three empty drawers, four coat hangers, a pair of shorts she had dropped and a grey sock that clung to the latch on the window. All the time screaming at me that I was a fucking lazy, fucking good for nothing, fucking rat bag bastard. Telling me it was my fucking fault for getting her mad. Eventually my life was on the grass. Not in a nice cell like two-foot heap, but scattered all over the lawn.

“Now get the fucking lot back upstairs and start again. You have thirty minutes you fucking rat bag fucking cunting fucking bastard fucking fucker!” She used to say this quite often and sometimes I struggled not to laugh when it came from her mouth. As I said this occasion stuck in my mind much more because of my belongings going out the window and the struggle in getting a mattress back upstairs. I was eleven and this was one of the hardest things I have ever done. To this day I do not know how I managed it, but I did. I don’t remember her even coming back to check. I just remember sitting in my bedroom that evening going through what was broken and what wasn’t. My model airplane was completely smashed. I think a shoe might have landed on it. It may have blown up on impact from its second floor descent. I put the pieces in the bin.

I had finished junior school and it was the summer holidays. Last one before starting at senior school. Dad was working at this time and mum as usual would stay in bed most days until after two in the afternoon. This was no problem. I would get up, sort out my brother and we would go out to play. I sort of resented him for a while as a child. I eventually realised that because he was five years younger than me it was not cool to have to take him everywhere with me. Once he was old enough to do his own thing, which was about eight in our household, this improved.

This particular morning it was the middle of August. I got myself out of bed about half eight in the morning and went downstairs to get some breakfast. The newspaper was on the doormat. I picked it up and took a look. There on the front page was the headline ‘KING ELVIS DEAD’. I was in shock. My mum loved this guy. I used to watch his films. Without a moments thought I raced upstairs to inform my mum

“Elvis is dead,” I blurted. She turned over and tried to stare at me, one eye still shut and asked me what I had said. I told her again. I was waving the paper around; there was a big picture of a fat Elvis and the words saying he was dead filling the page.

“You little bastard, I have had no sleep all night, I’m just dropping off and you fucking come in here waking me with shit, you stupid fucking bastard” With that she lent across the bed. I thought to get the paper so I instinctively Lent forwards which didn’t help my cause at all because her fist launched into me, striking me in the cheek and knocking me backwards. The back of my head hit the corner of the bedroom door and I dropped the paper. It flew apart.

“Look what you’ve done know cuntface. Fucking pick it up now and then fuck off and keep it quiet.” I left the room and washed my face. It was my fault because I had moved forward at the wrong time.
I woke my brother up, dressed and fed him and took him out. A lump on my cheek and a lump on the back of my head. She didn’t get up that day. Stayed in bed all day. She told my dad when he got home that she was too upset over the death of Elvis and was ill.

Elvis dying created another hazard for me with starting my new school a few weeks later. As you may recall, Punk was just starting to take a hold and the Mod revival was coming. Northern soul was popular and at senior school we wore a uniform. This left just shoes and the way you tied your tie as the only fashion statements you could make. I will explain more later. Just hold that thought.