Wee Willie Harris Once Stood on My Foot

By Jim Cunningham

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jan 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465391414

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Copyright © 2012 by Jim Cunningham.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4653-9139-1

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-9141-4

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Contents

Wee Willie Harris Once Stood On My Foot

1962: Music And Movies

Meet The Boys

Some You Win Some You Don’t

The Duel

Caravan Sickness

Double Date

The Fall Of An Id(Le)Ol

Party Time In The Old Nettyland

Party No. 2

Epilogue

WEE WILLIE HARRIS

ONCE STOOD ON MY FOOT

Sir?

The kid looked at me with a gormless expression which in his mind signified interest. In my mind, it preceded yet another inane question from this, the prince of pointless. His name was Martin which is an anagram of lazy shit. His parents were nice people who dreamed that Martin was bound for Uni where he’d grasp all the opportunities that their own lack of privilege had denied them.

He doesn’t do his homework, I remember telling them one parents’ evening. It’s holding him back.

Martin was sitting there with them. There was a blank look on his face that I was used to seeing when I was about to bollock him.

Come on. That can’t be right, the mother protested. Our Martin works very hard. She looked at her son who smiled at her.

Dad chipped in. Yes. He’s very dedicated is Martin. He comes straight in from school, goes to his room and works for hours. Comes down for tea, then goes back to his room to work some more.

Has he got a telly in his room?

They nodded.

Satellite? Cable? Computer?

They looked at me as if I’d desecrated a holy shrine.

What are you implying?

The Internet? Mobile Phone?

Now. Look here, Father protested.

No. You look. When did you last see him working in his room?

We can’t go in there. It’s his personal space.

It was useless. He doesn’t do his homework, I insisted.

They got up and left in silence. Not another sound, apart from the scraping of the chairs on the classroom floor. Mother scowled angrily as they left the room closing the door behind them.

*     *     *     *

Sir? Martin’s voice dragged me back to the present.

Yes, Martin. What can I do for you now? The others by now had looked up from their trigonometry exercise. I knew how they felt.

Well, sir, I was wondering if you were alive in the Sixties. The sines and cosines had suddenly been forgotten completely. I’d not seen this group this awake for months.

Why?

Well, sir. I was watching the History Channel on TV last night. It was about the Sixties. I just wondered if you were alive then.

He looked genuinely interested in his own dozy abstract fashion. I hesitated slightly. But to be honest, I was bored too.

Was it all sexndrugsnrocknroll? Danielle asked. I glanced at Danielle. It was as far as I dared go. If I stared too long into the big brown eyes, I began to imagine adverse headlines in the local paper. I smiled.

Sex? Different World. Drugs? Alcohol and tobacco. Rock’n’roll? There you go.

Lots of rock n roll, I said, preferring not to pursue the other options. I glanced at Danielle and rated it a wise decision.

Did you see any rock stars, sir? Will asked. Freed from the shackles of opposite, adjacent and hypotenuse, Will was beginning to show interest. I nodded.

Who?

I never saw them, I laughed out loud. The class did not understand. I never saw the Who, I added weakly.

Martin nodded. Nice try, sir. Not bad.

But did you meet anybody famous, sir? Danielle persisted—like the Beatles.

Well, I saw the Beatles live in 1964—but I couldn’t hear them for the screaming.

My mam wasn’t born then, one of the other girls informed me then. But I like the Beatles, though. Paul and Ringo would be pleased.

Wee Willie Harris once stood on my foot, I announced.

There was stunned silence. Their faces registered total amazement.

Wee Willie What?

Harris. Wee Willie Harris. Pink Hair. Drape Jacket. Crepe Soled Shoes. He was a rock star.

Never heard of him, Danielle said.

Nobody in the room, apart from me, had. I doubted if their parents had either. Even their grandparents would be pushed, I guessed.

Well, OK, he wasn’t a huge star like Cliff Richard (Murmurs of unrest from the class) but he was in the charts (Once, in 1959) and I did meet him.

How? Will asked. Will, bless him, had not joined in the chorus of groans.

Well, I was with my mates, outside The City Hall in Newcastle, queuing for tickets to see some show or other, when WWH came out. There he was, pink hair, pink suit. He looked at me and said, Ey, kid, is there a delicatessen round ’ere?"

There was no such thing in Newcastle in 1964 but my mate told him where the nearest snack bar was and I managed to blurt out You’re Wee Willie Harris, aren’t you?

He thought about this for a few seconds and said, Yeah.

Can I have your autograph? I thrust a scrap of paper towards him.

Sho’, he replied. Go’ a pen?

I hadn’t and he hadn’t so that was that. He smiled and went off to the snack bar and I was left with no evidence that our historic meeting took place.

I thought you said he stood on your foot.

He almost did, I protested. He nearly did. He would have done if I got my foot under his in time.

There was general mayhem in the classroom by now. I was saved by the bell. As the little sods trooped out, Danielle fluttered the long eyelashes in my direction.

You know, sir, you’re really sad sometimes.

Really sad. This from a 17 year old bimbo with a shirt up to her arse and eye makeup as dark as the inside of whatever it is has a dark inside. As I watched Danielle’s retreating rump exit through the classroom door I paused to reflect. Sad wasn’t miserable any more nor did gay guarantee happiness. As the echoes of this the last bell of the day rang in my mind, I walked across the room and stared out of the window at the 3.30 rain which was pouring from the early December sky onto the yard below. The fleeing pupils bent slightly into the evening wind, clutching their large bags of books in one hand and trying vainly to hold their collars together with the other, struggling vainly to make it to the numerous buses and cars parked at the school gates. Some of them went to caring, protective parents, anxious that their precious offspring be spared the inconvenience of bad weather. Others though were piling into other cars; older cars with windows wound down in defiance of the elements, playing loud, thumping music. Teenage girls with older boyfriends, probably only a year or so from school themselves, fell screaming and giggling through the open doors of red Ford Fiestas which sped off into the deepening darkness.

There were some, though, who walked struggling slowly against the wind, rain in their faces, pushing defiantly homewards to what? An empty house, tea from the microwave, hours of endless fun in front of the set or on the net. They moved mostly in groups as the rain increased, spattering harder on the classroom window making the images more blurred and surreal—or unreal. It wasn’t like this when I went to school, I told myself—or was it? I vainly tried to capture an image of my teenage self all those years ago. I didn’t fit in. Only children feel like that—or don’t as the case may be. For my part, it was exactly how I felt. The world, or at least the part of it I knew, was against me. Unlike my heroes of literature I had no dreams, no ambition, except the vague notion that I deserved the chance to be me. Not what my parents wanted, nor my teachers, nor even my friends, just me. Freedom to be anonymous, to achieve nothing save what I might decide to do.

In later life, people would accuse me of being difficult to manage to which I would reply, simply, that managing me is simple—leave me alone, I will blossom, interfere and I will stifle and wither. Believe me I have done my share of both at times.

Anyway, as I stood there, watching the stragglers in the rain, I felt a great sense of sadness. The world had turned on its axis many times since I’d been there in my duffle coat with my haversack over my right shoulder. It was one of the fashions I adhered to—the one strap haversack. It gave you a certain manly swagger—in contrast to the nerds who used both straps—only we didn’t call them nerds because the word hadn’t been invented. We called them puffs which meant sissy and soft. The notion of homosexuality didn’t exist either. It was all so innocent, so straightforward. Boy meets girl; boy fumbles with girl; boy marries girl; boy becomes dad; girl becomes wife and mother. That was the way of the world—except in my case, of course. Thing was, I couldn’t get to boy meets girl. I played the sympathy card, the Valentine card, the comedy card but all I ended up with was an over developed right wrist and a bag full of broken dreams. Adolescence was a real pain for me, only I didn’t know what the word meant. Christ, I’d only just become a teenager and already they were using long words to confuse me.

I dragged myself back to the present, to the window and the rain. The yard below was empty now, silent, pools gradually taking over the tennis courts and the all weather pitches. I walked to the door, switched off the lights and went down four flights of stairs, through the double doors and into the car park. I hurried as fast as my ageing legs would carry me, dodging the puddles, and unlocked the door of the Escort.

Inside, I turned on the fan to clear the screen. I’d left the radio on. All I have to do is dream by the Everlys was playing. Dree-ee-ee-em, dreem, dreem, dreem, almost fifty years old. At the time, I thought it was a song about Jean, revealing what a gormless little shit I was back then.

It must have been Golden Oldies Hour or something but Dan and Phil were replaced by the Crickets’ Oh Boy. God, I thought, Buddy Holly would be nearly seventy if he’d lived. I remember clearly the day he died. I was trailing unwillingly to school when Bob Guthrie told me. Buddy Holly’s died in a plane crash, he said. I laughed and waited for the punch line but it never came. As celebrity deaths go, it affected me more than any other. I don’t know why. I didn’t know then, either, so half a century or so has done little for my self knowledge.

I peered into the headlit darkness. Rain continued to cascade down the screen. The wipers, at full speed, struggled to cope. The world suddenly seemed a lonely, empty place. Floyd Cramer played Last Date on the radio now, all slidy chords and sad memories. I wished I was home back in the present. I pushed the button on the radio and yesterday disappeared. I remembered from a quiz question that it was L.P Hartley who said The past is another country. They do things differently there. He was spot on, old L.P.

£2.40. It’s gone up, the barmaid said, staring at the two pound coins and the twenty pence piece which I’d placed on the bar in front of her.

I smiled weakly and fished in my jeans pocket for a further 20p. Eventually, I exchanged the silver heptagon for a fifty. Coldly, dispassionately the young blonde scooped the money from the bar and transferred it to the till, from whence she extracted my change. She handed me the 10p coin without returning my smile or echoing my thank you. She turned through 90° anticlockwise and set off in the direction of another thirsty punter.

I looked at the coin in my palm. Christ! I thought, I remember when that 50p would have been enough for eight pints with enough change for five tabs. My life as History. God! What’s going on?

I heard the barmaid telling another unfortunate geriatric that It’s gone up, just before some bastard switched on the music and my eardrums gave up. I crept away from the bar, looking for a seat with a back on. There were none. Eventually, I settled for a perch on a stool facing a square pillar. I stared blankly at the pillar for a while, sipping the pale beer quietly as the music reached out and grabbed the interior of my head and filled it with meaningless noise. My grandmother probably felt the same about Jailhouse Rock. What’s Happening? Where’s Vera Lynn and Donald Pears? That’s dreadful. Turn it off. It’s giving me a headache.

Welcome to the 21st Century. You’re sitting in the same pub you sat in in 1962, the very same—but it’s not the same! You’re not the same. The world has turned a few times and now the barmaid’s looking at you as if you were old Bart who used to sit at the corner of the bar and drink miniature bottles of whiskey. He sat there for years, same seat, same time, same drink—then he didn’t. I assumed he died but no-one knew for sure. The notion of alien abduction was unfamiliar in those days so you just assumed the worst.

The barmaid suddenly beamed a white smile in my direction which made my toes curl in my shoes. They uncurled fairly quickly as I realised the smile was directed over my right shoulder at the two young guys who had just walked in the bar. They swaggered past me and approached the bar. The tall blonde guy in the Cool Dudes Pool T shirt shouted above the music.

Lager! Two! Now! he yelled.

His mate, shorter, in a suit with a plain white T shirt, yelled something which I couldn’t hear. The barmaid’s eyelashes fluttered vigorously. Her smile expanded and flashed once more. I returned my gaze to the pillar.

I read somewhere that 8 out of 10 people over fifty feel anonymous in today’s society. I looked around for the other seven. They obviously didn’t come to this pub. It had filled up suddenly and, looking at the groups of revellers surrounding me, there was only one anonymous over fifty year old in the place. There was a group of women in their fifties at the end of the bar. They were screaming and giggling at the barmaid’s two friends who had moved over to chat to them. Funny, I thought, there were no groups of screaming women when I was those lads’ age. In fact, there were hardly any women in the pubs. Well, not decent pubs. There were, of less reputable establishments full, they said, of prostitutes. I didn’t really know what a prostitute was except that a girl in our class got really upset when I called her one as a dare. No, in my day (There I go again, Old gits R Us.), you met girls at the church hall or in the school yard or the pictures—and they were girls your own age—not somebody’s mother on a bender.

I finished my drink quietly and left the bar. Outside, I toyed with the idea of a pub crawl for old times sake. I settled for the walk home instead. The night air was turning cool and a light breeze skipped cheerily along the early evening street.

I thrust my hands into the pockets of my denims. Leaning slightly into the wind I trudged my weary way home. I lit a cigarette and inhaled. The comforting smoke cheered me a little. I could have done with an alien abduction just then, I thought. Something to transport me through time to a better place, a place where people cared and the world was bright and cheery, not shitty like it is now. People told you not to smoke then and warned you about the dangers of drink but not like now. Now they march jack-booted through your existence like the Nazi branch of the Mothers’ Union with the po faces fixed in It’s for your own good mode.

Feeling increasingly like an anachronism, I pitched the half smoked cigarette on to the pavement and ground it into the concrete with my right heel.

Naughty, naughty, admonished a voice over to my left.

£200 fine. No bother. That’s if we tell… sir.

There were two aliens perched on the rail which separated unwary pedestrians from lethal automobiles.

I could see instantly that they were aliens. They wore baseball caps with meaningless writing on and were dressed in tracksuit tops and jogging pants. Most alien of all, they were ex pupils of mine. Spence and Terry from two years earlier.

Must be worth a tab, sir. Not grassing you up, Spence said, smiling.

Yeah, sir. Didn’t you used to tell us not to smoke? Terry continued.

To be fair, I might have done. It’s the sort of crap advice that went with the job.

And the drug advice and the VD, Spence went on, adding, sir as an afterthought.

I never did illegal drugs and certainly never had the pox, I laughed. Oh, and drop the sir, it’s Jim.

OK, Jim, deal. Now, flash the ash.

I handed them a Silk Cut each. I then used my plastic disposable lighter (10 for £1 in the market) to fuel the tobacco. The lads puffed away merrily.

Sorry it’s not Capstan Full Strength, I mused.

Capstan what? Terry asked, bewildered.

Full Strength, I boasted, exaggerating slightly. We all smoked full strength when I was your age. (Truth: I smoked them once and they gave me a sore throat, so I returned to Senior Service.) [For those of you reading in black and white, Senior Service were cigarettes. I’ve never seen them for years. Maybe, like the Royal Navy, they’re largely history.]

Anyway, why aren’t you two in the pub? I enquired.

Skint. Don’t get paid until tomorrow, Terry said. I don’t suppose you could lend us a couple of quid… Jim? he added with a good natured smile.

Two pounds? You’ll not get much with two pounds.

2 litres of 9% down at the offie. It’ll do just fine.

Being well educated, they said, Thanks, in unison, took my £2 coin and headed for the off licence. They stopped and waved back after they’d gone about 20 yards.

You’re mint, sir, Spence yelled.

Jim, I called back.

Yeah, right, Jim.

I watched them disappear around a shop corner. The night was suddenly colder and the warmth of my meeting with alien life forms left me abruptly. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was the alien. I know everything—the capital of Peru, how to solve second order differential equation, the chemical formula for common salt—I could even set the timer on the video—yet I understand nothing.

Beam me up, somebody. I need to go back where I belong.

1962—The Chinese Year of the Dog—and it was, if the girls I met that year were anything to go by. Ah, the old jokes… In truth, it could have been the Chinese Year of anything. I wouldn’t have known—or cared. I was 16 going on 17, for Christ’s sake. What do you want for 1/6d, Stanley Mathews? (As a long-forgotten Blyth Spartan’s winger once asked an irate supporter who questioned his commitment to the Green and White cause.)

These stories of my life first saw the light of day in 1964 where as a 19 year old, I decided to put pen to paper for the first time. Looking back, I realise I understood about as much then as I know now—Jack Shit. The enlightenment which I expected as my birthright back then just never came. The power surge which would drive back the enveloping semi-darkness of ignorance must have been on hold. Perhaps the meter needed a coin or two, before I could step onto the red carpet that covered the steps leading to the Doors of Understanding, but I didn’t have the money. Now, I’ve got the cash but I can’t remember where