A Tale Told by an Idiot

By Richard Taylor

This is a story about one man's struggle to overcome class discrimination, poverty, and abandonment in order to achieve success, wholeness, and recognition. It does not always make light reading, but as with anything in life, there are humorous elements. A mixture of narrative storytelling and academic investigation provides the necessary balance for discussing a difficult subject. From earliest childhood memories, the reader is taken through the commotion of school life and ultimately beyond into the world of work. There is a gradual reversal of roles, as the ideas applied to the writer in his youth are turned outwards upon his entourage, and subsequently, the rest of society. One need not always agree; but hopefully the book will provide at the very least food for thought, and demonstrate the limitations of any idea when taken to the extreme.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481784122

Richard Taylor

Richard Taylor is an experienced and popular watercolourist, who regularly teaches and lectures on all aspects of painting. He is the successful author of several books, including The Watercolourist’s Year, Learn to Paint Buildings in Watercolour and Painting Houses and Gardens in Watercolour and was the Consultant and Contributor to The Art Course partwork. He writes for The Artist, Leisure Painter and Artists & Illustrators magazines and has also made several instructional painting videos.

Book preview

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

The Hidden Menace

Chapter 2

A Capitalist Pleb

Chapter 3

Back from the Brink

About the Author

About the Book

Bibliography

Endnotes

For Astrid Boulet and Arlette Romaine. Thanks also to Ryan Betchley and Soheyla Riazimafi.

Introduction

The Victorian novel was written in three parts. Since this is in some ways a Victorian story, it seems appropriate to pay homage to the form. While divisible by three chronologically, it is also my wish that it should operate on three levels: as a personal biography, vindicating my right to exist as a private citizen devoid of any philosophical system; as a case study designed to fuel the debate on how best to bring up children; and as a critique of contemporary society. Despite being an expert in neither psychology nor philosophy, my goal is to speak with the honesty of personal experience. Events are rarely dealt with as matters of fact, for such is the nature of my subject that it calls into question the criteria by which fact is separated from fiction. The reader is requested to reserve critical judgment and to interpret the text intuitively.

Admittedly, the pitfalls are perilous. Nietzsche’s warning is clear, ‘When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you’,¹ a warning unheeded by many to their detriment. On the other hand, it was thanks to his vision of hell that Milton progressed to a subsequent vision of heaven—the navigation of one being essential to the manifestation of the other. Perhaps my memory of certain experiences is tainted by the strong emotions felt at the time, and I suffer a personal bias. However, events are presented as remembered, based on how they affected me personally. It is not my aim to scandalize nor sensationalize, but to put forward some important questions to the reader—questions that relate to all of us, in that we were all once children. Whether we like it or not, the seemingly arbitrary events which took place at that time went on to shape the people we became, and on a collective scale, the kind of society within which we live.

Others have drawn attention to the spiritual crisis in modern man, but were perhaps not so uniquely placed as I to view the pitfalls of the two contrasting social spheres, poverty and wealth, belonging as I did to both yet existing in neither. The reader is left with a quote from The Great Gatsby: ‘In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. Whenever you feel like criticizing any one, he told me, just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages you’ve had.’²

Chapter 1

The Hidden Menace

According to the information to which I am partial, I was born in Hammersmith hospital some thirty-nine years ago. Like most people, I have little recollection of that early time in my life. After a brief period in London, my mother and I went to live for a year in a quiet suburb of Brussels. Later, I was left in no doubt that the disappearance of my father at that time was my fault. After our return to Britain, the images become clearer. We inhabited a small flat in a Scottish town. My best memory of the period is of running into another boy of the same age while out wandering. I recall the innocent simplicity of meeting another person of my age by pure chance and being able to strike up a friendship without any complication or ulterior motive. There was the discovery of my favourite muesli; I liked to imagine all the delicious ingredients inside, as advertised on the box. There was my little orange Volkswagen and my yellow tractor which was driven everywhere as an alternative to walking. My pinkie finger played the role of indicator as I weaved my way through imaginary streets. Later, my grandmother’s knitting needles were fed through a hole, and as these rattled, the motor was activated. Particularly fascinating was a little passage which led from the centre of the town to some outer parts. There was the comfort of the enclosed space, and a sense of curiosity and adventure as everything seemed possible.

Some less positive recollections of the period include a feeling of utter terror the first time my photo was taken at play school, and my final determination not to let it happen at any price. Somehow I had deduced similar sentiments to American Indians and believed that my soul would be captured by the camera and my life put to an abrupt end. There was the birthday party of a friend who, after spinning round several times in the centre of the living room, became dizzy and crashed into the coffee table, knocking out several teeth. The evening had started out well for me, after being the lucky one to pull the engine out of his toy box while the others had to settle for a carriage. But from that moment on, I realized that bad events could arrive at any moment without warning and that nobody was really safe. This growing realization of human fallibility was further stressed on a school trip during which a child cut himself on a piece of broken glass and in a more dramatic way when I went to see Bambi. My two aunts found my incredulity at the absence of Bambi’s mother eternally amusing.

At about that time, it was decided that there would be a better future for me if we went to live in London. I remember letting my little toy police car run down the chute in a small children’s play park and a feeling of being protected and imagining life’s possibilities. The backdrop of this was the search by my aunt and mother for a suitable family house to buy. Like any toddler, I was blissfully unaware of any seriousness to life. Later memories are more vivid. There was my birthday, aged five, at which I had a rare glimpse of my biological father. There was some kind of row, and he went home early. Although he was seldom present, when he was he would pick me up from school, and I would sit amongst his dirty tools in the back of his plumber’s van.

My first Christmas in London was any child’s dream. Presents filled the living room so that you could hardly enter. To this day, the memory of that sight reassures me. I received all the wonderful gifts I had longed for as we searched the stores at Christmas. A cart from a market stall, fully equipped with plastic fruit and vegetables, allowed me to try my hand at shop assistant—perhaps it was the apple cart I would later upset. With a Scalextric, I became a racing driver. Some plastic fences and animals transformed me into a farmer. Life seemed good with so many presents to console me for the upheaval created by the removal. Although at the time life seemed to offer many new and exciting possibilities, I was aware that all was not well. Generous portions of yeast were sprinkled on my food, there were corresponding milkshakes to be drunk, and even yeast ice-lollies to be sucked. The idea was to top up my vitamin B6 intake, which was deemed to be at the root of my concentration problems. There were also long afternoon naps, which I was obliged to endure.

Doorbells were rung, and I gained some playmates. After I began at the local primary school, these relations became stronger. I was particularly friendly with a group of girls who lived in the same street. For the first time, I was the boss. I would go round to their house, each day having the choice of who I would play with. The others grumbled jealously, begging me to choose them next time. They were very nice little companions, but I began to notice that there were invisible rules that prevented them from doing certain things. For example, there was a jar of sweets which nobody dared touch—apparently they were allowed one only very occasionally. These limits seemed ridiculous, and I told them they were free to do whatever they wanted. They didn’t follow my argument, but as I was the boy they all wished to play with, they tolerated my strange thinking.

My mother had made friends with others in the street, some of whose children were not my best friends. We went around to their house once, and as always happens when sensible adults get together, the children were sent off to play. The two boys were the children of the mothers downstairs. I was instantly uneasy at being in this unfamiliar environment, and my instincts were correct. The two boys wrestled me to the ground, one holding me while the other attempted to bend my limbs back. I became frantic and desperately tried to free myself, but they held me fast and continued to apply pressure. Eventually I was released, and I went sulkily back downstairs to my waiting mother. After we left, I tried to explain to her what had happened—that I felt myself to have been unfairly treated. I was frustrated to find that, despite my distress, my account had not registered.

When I was seven years old, the phone began to ring more frequently. Strangely, it was not my father’s voice on the other end but another, alien and masculine. Ever longer periods were spent speaking to this voice, and after several months, its proposal of marriage was accepted by my mother. Even at a young age, it seemed unusual for someone to get married on the basis of several phone conversations, but such decisions were not for consideration by children. Apparently in our new lives, I would have ample space to play, friends in the neighbourhood, and a much needed father figure to boot.

Shortly before we moved back to Scotland to begin our new lives, I went on a day trip to an aerodrome with the father of one of the neighbours and his baby daughter. Here was a man I admired. I had seen the model planes he had made and had longed to do the same myself. On our day out, I marvelled at the collection of life-sized fighters and dreamed of building models of them all. As we walked around, I noticed his daughter falling further behind. Rather than telling her father as I should have done, I further distracted him. The harm caused was not great, as the girl was easily found. Yet for many years I felt guilty for this small transgression, though I believe a longing for a father of my own had provoked this action.

Before the pending marriage, we received a visit from the man who would later become my stepfather. He arrived at the door clutching two boxes of soldiers, which he made as if to hand to me, while at the last minute separating them, so that I received one from his left hand, and my best friend received the other from the right. One, had become two, two had become three, and all too fast for my psyche to integrate so many new elements to my personality. As an only child, I had always played the role of ‘other’ myself. How was I to do battle with another army that had a will of its own? Suddenly my notion of my unique importance in the world was broken. I—like one of the soldiers in my box—would exist thereafter merely in relation to those around me.

The wedding was a strange affair, conducted privately at home with seeming little regard to sentiment. Although I felt out of place in a room full of in-laws and strange faces, my alienation was adhered to in that I was given a ring too. In effect, I was also getting married into a new life with new circumstances. Materially, the new life was a dream. I had free rein of a large garden with six apple trees and a pear tree, behind which began a forest that stretched out in all directions, linking up different parts of the community. Through this marriage I had acquired two brothers, each a good seven or eight years older than myself. There was a first family get-together in which, after dinner and a knock about with a football on the lawn, I was hoisted up on their shoulders, giving me a rare glimpse of my own existence.

Soon after, I began at the local primary school where I was seen as distinctly odd. Firstly, on account of my heavily English accent, and secondly, as I seemed to have not a clue how to relate to other children or how to approach my school work. I felt distinctly nauseous every time school came into view or was even mentioned. My first meeting with the headmaster was strained. It seemed to have something to do with the fact that one of my stepbrothers had been a less than exemplary pupil before me. I suppose they thought, ‘not another one of the same ilk’. This did little to allay my fears, contributing only further to my sense of alienation. The nausea grew each time I approached the school canteen. So many emotions are tied up with the smell of cooking, good and bad. Home cooking conjures up memories of security, love, and togetherness, whereas school meals convey the opposite: mass production, functionality, and group coercion.

At playtime I had my first experience of wrestling. It was clear that I was not the most physically strong of individuals. Certainly I had more fear than others, although I could not pinpoint exactly of what that fear consisted. It was a feeling of isolation that I remember the most. As others played, it was I who looked on. A girl in my class, provoked and teased, provided the boys with a game of chase. I gazed on melancholically as she raced after them, clutching her apple consumed to the pips. What futility was expressed in this arbitrary scene? What hope for a society which re-enacted its neurotic impulses on each forthcoming generation?

After six weeks, it was decided that things were not working out—neither in the new marriage, nor for me at my new school. We would once again head south. Life had since moved on for my previous classmates, but they nevertheless allowed me to reintegrate with little upheaval. I began again at my old school and felt instantly better, being once again in the environment that I was used to. My best friend had become studious and serious about school, and while I felt daunted, I also felt admiration for my friend who had been so rowdy before.

However, after one week reinstated there, it was agreed to give things another try in Scotland. I said goodbye to my classmates, and once again we hit the road. My aunt and mother decided to enrol me in what is called a prep school. At that point I did not really understand that prep is short for preparatory, designed to prepare a child for an early separation from his parents. As our homework was also called ‘prep’ in order to avoid use of the word ‘home’, I came to believe that I attended a homework school. This was not a bad translation, because from the very start we received so much homework that, had you cooperated and done as you were asked, you would not have been allowed the barest second to express your childhood sensibilities. I did not seem to possess the killer instinct required to succeed in such an environment. However, I did show a precocious talent for the recorder and came close to winning a solo recital involving other schools in my region.

Although I experienced some problems integrating with my fellow pupils, I did not have a sense at that stage of anything being terribly amiss. I took advantage of the wonderful natural environment around me and didn’t take too much notice of the marital strain at home. I played a variety of games with neighbouring kids which, while not of the angelic variety, were not of a sinister nature. We rang doorbells and ran away, tied thread between two letter boxes and roared with laughter as we watched the bemused occupants coming to answer a door where there was nobody. Another game involved walking down opposite sides of the street, and as a car passed, suddenly pulling on an imaginary rope, which caused the car to brake suddenly. We then continued with an air of innocence as the enraged driver wondered how to react towards skulduggery involving an invisible rope.

In summer we played tennis in the garden, creating our own centre court with propped up sun beds for a net and created an umpire’s chair from a stepladder. An assault course was constructed out of planks to be walked over like tightropes, and a paddling pool to land in was the final obstacle. These were good times, when my imagination was given free rein and there was barely time to eat between activities. Inevitably my school work suffered, but I could not imagine sacrificing this blissful freedom to a draconian ritual of study and learning. In winter, we would pour hot water down the garden, creating an icy toboggan run. At weekends, we went off to the park to sledge down more challenging slopes, coming home with fingers red