Alcohol Stole My Mum

By John Taylor - Paolo Hewitt

Number 1 Best Seller; Alcohol Stole My Mum...

 

In 1978 John Taylor is eight years old and is in love with life. At school he is top of his class and adored by all the teachers. On the football pitch, he exhibits skills way beyond his years and, better still, his beloved Arsenal have just reached the FA Cup Final. Everything is great for John until the day he comes home from school and sees his alcoholic mother lying in bed after being beaten to a pulp by his violent father. From then on, his world changes terribly. To escape his painful and turbulent childhood, John finds solace in sports, especially football. He becomes a huge Arsenal and Celtic fan and amongst those supporters, he experiences a 'real' family, a togetherness as he travels with them to stadiums up and down the country. When John reaches adulthood, he is able to build a good life for himself with his loving partner and two beautiful young daughters. However, like so many who carry unresolved childhood trauma in their hearts, John falls prey to his own addictions. With the demons worsening in his head, and in the midst of a mental breakdown, he begrudgingly checks himself into rehab.  Whilst there, he was given a choice: does he want to see his girls grow up, or does he want to be just like his mother? Faced with a 'life or death' situation, John opens up about his childhood for the first time ever in his life. Alcohol Stole My Mum is a hugely brave examination of a man's life to date. It is a story of great redemption told with a depth and candour that seeks to inspire and to help others. It is a compelling tale of how alcoholism destroys the family unit, but, worse still, creates devastating consequences that endure for years. Yet it is also laced with great humour. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kaleidoscope - Wapping Wharf
• Release date: Feb 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201033200

John Taylor - Paolo Hewitt

In 1978 John Taylor is eight years old and is in love with life. At school he is top of his class and adored by all the teachers. On the football pitch, he exhibits skills way beyond his years and, better still, his beloved Arsenal have just reached the FA Cup Final.  Everything is great for John until the day he comes home from school and sees his alcoholic mother lying in bed after being beaten to a pulp by his violent father. From then on, his world changes terribly.  To escape his painful and turbulent childhood, John finds solace in sports, especially football. He becomes a huge Arsenal and Celtic fan and amongst those supporters, he experiences a ‘real’ family, a togetherness as he travels with them to stadiums up and down the country. When John reaches adulthood, he is able to build a good life for himself with his loving partner and two beautiful young daughters. However, like so many who carry unresolved childhood trauma in their hearts, John falls prey to his own addictions. With the demons worsening in his head, and in the midst of a mental breakdown, he begrudgingly checks himself into rehab.  Whilst there, he was given a choice: does he want to see his girls grow up, or does he want to be just like his mother? Faced with a ‘life or death’ situation, John opens up about his childhood for the first time ever in his life.   Alcohol Stole My Mum is a hugely brave examination of a man’s life to date. It is a story of great redemption told with a depth and candour that seeks to inspire and to help others. It is a compelling tale of how alcoholism destroys the family unit, but, worse still, creates devastating consequences that endure for years.  Yet it is also laced with great humour.

Book preview

FIRST HALF

CHAPTER ONE

THE SPECIAL ONE

Applause spreads out from the audience, slow at first, and then gathers pace, turning into rapid gunfire before it swoops upwards to the roof of this school assembly hall. Applause gathers itself for a brief second, and then all of it swoops down and invades my very being in a silver-like fashion, making my soul blossom and heart swell in ways I never thought possible. 

I gasp, delighted. 

I love this feeling, especially as this standing ovation seems to last forever and forever and forever.

It is the last night of the school Nativity play. 

I have played Joseph. The father….. 

I look down from the stage. There! My mum, dad, and my Aunty Kay (my mum's sister who has travelled down especially from Scotland for the show) sat in the front row, applauding wildly, their hands noisily sending out showers of appreciation to me. 

I look to my left, and my sports teacher, and leader of the orchestra, Mr. Shaw, is too smiling and clapping. I look over the heads of the audience, and at the back of the hall, my form teacher Miss Bryant is blowing me kisses. 

At that moment alone, I don't think I have ever been happier. 

I am John Taylor, and the world adores me.

After the show, everyone – parents, teachers, my friends – all ask me - how do you do it? How is it possible?

How do you remember all those words for the show? And the answer is simple.

Even at six years old, I am aware that I am a sponge that my tiny brain can store uploads of information. I am not aware that I will be calling upon this skill many times as a child, but in ways, no one could ever anticipate.

But right now, the significant fact growing bigger and bigger and more prominent in my mind, the one that is unleashing excitement and anticipation, is this…………….

**********************************************************

'Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you.'

My seventh birthday took place in Gran Canary on a family holiday. That night, we – meaning my mum, dad, and little sister - went to a fancy restaurant, and - as is traditional in Europe - I am given a couple of mouthfuls of wine. 

Later, I somehow lock myself in the toilet. It is all a big joke as the waiter has to free me, I remember him saying, 'You had too much to drink,' and everyone laughing. That was my first introduction to alcohol.

'Happy birthday, dear John, happy birthday to you.'

My real birthday party took place in Soho, London. Here I am and the song is my cue to blow out the seven candles on my birthday cake and open my presents. My best presents are the ‘Shoot Annual’ (with Kevin Keegan on the front cover) and a football quiz book. 

As we are at a party, why not meet the family? 

Here is Nana. Nana is my dad's mum, a big and fearsome Scottish woman, who with her broad Glaswegian accent terrifies me. Nana and her husband, a small, slim man named Grandad Jock, live in Broadwick Street in Soho, where the famous English poet William Blake was born. 

It is a stone's throw from the iconic Carnaby Street, where my memories are not of mini-skirts and stylish teenagers on scooters, but lots of people walking about with funny coloured hair, ripped clothes, and pins through their noses.

Punk.

Berwick Street, where our family has maintained a stall in the market for years, is nearby. I work the market at the weekends and get paid the princely sum of 50 pence, for me, a lot of money. 

I often run out onto Nana's balcony, and if I get on my tiptoes, to the left, I can see our stall on Berwick Street, and to the right, I can see Carnaby Street. Although I am in Soho a lot, my family actually lives in Victoria.

At the time of the party, I am a very confident boy, and I know why. 

It is because my mum cuddles me every day. She tells me she loves me, will always protect me. My mum never tells me to be quiet. She allows me to talk, makes me know that I can be me. 

We always watch television together - The Mike Yarwood Show, The Generation Game, The Six-Million-Dollar Man, Emmerdale Farm, Multi-Coloured Swap Shop, or Songs of Praise. We snuggle up on the sofa, and I lose myself in the warmth of her love.

The only time we don't cuddle is when The Big Match airs on a Sunday afternoon. That is football. And I only watch that with my Dad. 

We are Arsenal, through and through. 

My dad's past is as red as our team's shirt. In 1948, he moved down to the West End of London from Glasgow with his family. He is a small man in stature, but he is fearless and has tremendous violence inside of him. As a young man, he builds a fearsome reputation that brutally comes to fruition on a particular day in 1962, years before I was born.

The story is quite simple. There was a professional boxer knocking around the West End who was quite flash but could handle himself. So my dad agreed to an organized street fight in Soho (a ‘straightener’ as they called it in those days or a ‘square-go’ if you lived in Glasgow) with a big crowd and a well-known local gangster as the ref. My dad won the fight quickly.

His hard-man reputation is now active.

One of my first memories of my dad locates itself in Carnaby Street. I walk hand in hand with him up to a phone box. There is a man on the phone. After waiting a couple of minutes, my dad loses his patience.

‘Come on, mate, you’ve had your time.’

The man mouths ‘Fuck off’’. The man is stupid.

My dad opens the door, drags the man out of the phone box, delivers one punch, and then takes my hand, and walks off as if nothing has happened. I look back to see the man staggering around, blood splashing onto his shoes. I now look up at my father, a great fear of him bubbling up inside of me.

I realise I am actually terrified of him.

In later life, I will discover that there is only one upside to being the son of a hard man - people leave me alone.

They know who my dad is and that protects me.

My mother on the other hand…..

On the radio, Leo Sayer is number one with 'When I Need You.'

To show her my deep love and appreciation, I learn the song off by heart and sing it to my mum every night in bed before I go to sleep. And every night, she smiles, gives me a big hug, and says, 'You are my special little boy, and I love you lots, John.'

Sometimes when she hugs me her breath smells a bit funny.

But that’s okay. The fact remains that I am the Special One thirty years before the football manager, Jose Mourinho.

Consequently, I excel at school, academically and sporting-wise. Pretty soon, I will be making my first holy communion. This is a big deal. We are a solid and good Catholic family and always will be - forever and forever. 

Back at the party, I am pleased to introduce you to my Aunty Elaine, married to my dad's brother, Charlie. Aunty Elaine, a petite woman with long brown hair, lives around the corner from Nana. She is my favourite aunty because she takes me swimming at Marshall Street Baths, next to her flat.

Better still, meet Grandad Jock. I love Grandad Jock. I love the coins and card tricks he plays on us children at birthday parties such as mine. But above all, I love Saturday nights when my parents go out, and he comes round to babysit me, and he tells me stories about his life growing up in the Gorbals in Glasgow.

He always ends his reminiscing by talking about his friend and ‘The Greatest Boxer Ever To Have Lived,' a Scotsman named Benny Lynch.

'He was Britain's first-ever world champion,' he proudly states, 'and the 9th of July 1935 is the greatest day in Scotland's history because that was when Lynch won the world title against Jackie Brown in Manchester when he was just twenty-two.'

'I wanted to go down to support him but couldn't afford it, but there were a hundred thousand of us waiting for him to return to Glasgow Central Station, all of us shouting, We love you, Benny. He was a hero to the people of Glasgow and a genius.' 

'I used to go and watch him fight all around Glasgow and in the fight booths as well where he would fight people for money. Benny was a generous man who would give someone his last penny, but people took advantage of him. And you know he never lost his world title in the ring. He lost it out of the ring.' 

When Grandad Jock is telling his stories about Benny Lynch, I ask question after question. But as the story comes to an end, I learn it is time to stop asking. 

For that is when Grandad Jock gets sad and says, 'Benny died too young, God bless him. There should be a statue of Benny in Glasgow for what he did. A statue.'

And then he shoos me off to bed. 

Most days, I think about him. I have no picture of him, but I see a man from behind, on top of a bus and thousands cheering him. Applause is everywhere.

Benny Lynch is my first hero.

On Sunday mornings, my mum and dad always lie in after being out the night before. But I don't care. 

Soon as I awake, I am in their bedroom.

I remember one Sunday morning when I was about five, waking my dad and mum up and saying I had something to tell them. 

Earlier that week, one of the older kids in the neighbourhood had told me a joke which sounded funny, but I didn't understand it. So I decided I would try it out on my mum and dad.

Standing at the side of their bed, I said, 'Mum. Dad. Did you hear about the Irishman who put his false teeth in backward? He ate himself.'

I know it's not very PC today, but my mum and dad roared with laughter for what seemed to be ages.

That was when I learned the power of laughter that you could please a lot of people if you make them laugh. 

Another Sunday morning, my dad woke me up to tell me that Arsenal had bought the great centre forward Malcolm Macdonald from Newcastle. Immediately, I am buzzing.

‘Supermac' (as he is known) is a great goal-scorer. 

‘Who can stop the Arsenal now?’ I shout to my dad.

The summer of 1977 is the Queen's Jubilee Year, and London celebrates with street parties. We attend one in Great Titchfield Street in the West End after a day of working the stall at Berwick Street with my Dad.

One day that summer my dad stops his taxi to buy a paper from an old man working on a paper stall at Piccadilly Circus. 

‘Alright Jimmy, got a Standard?’

As this old man comes towards my dad to give him his paper, my dad points to me sitting in the back of the taxi and says, The boys gonna play for Arsenal one day.’ 

I get a thumbs-up as he and my dad talk about Arsenal.

As we drive away my dad says to me. ‘Do you know who that was boy?’

‘No dad.’

‘One of the greatest ever players to play for Arsenal, Jimmy Logie.’

I was excited as we drove away, I had just met one of the greatest ever Arsenal players. But why was he working on a paper stall? To my mind, that did not seem right at all.

Later on, in the summer, as is tradition, my mum takes my little sister and me up to Scotland to her parent's house for our annual summer holidays. 

Granny lives in a village ten miles north of Glasgow called Milton of Campsie with my mum's dad, appropriately referred to by everyone as ‘Whisky Ben’. He has a long spindly face and is always unshaven. 

Also present in the house is my mum’s brother, Uncle James. Again, like most of my relatives, he has a small stature but is marked out by a stutter. His nickname is Sailor, as he was once in the Merchant Navy.

Granny is a deeply religious woman. When we arrive, the first thing she does is to give me some rosary beads for making my first holy communion. Granny is proud of me for playing Joseph in the school play. Before we can settle, she is dragging me around all my aunties' houses, making me recite my lines again and again. I love it—more applause, more glowing.

One day I am sitting on Granny's knee, and we start reading the bible together. I ask Granny,' What is the difference between Good and Evil?'

Granny tells me that evil is when people do bad things and go to hell, but good is when people are kind to each other and go to Heaven. Granny tells me that I will be going to Heaven. I snuggle into Granny.

I love Granny as much as I love my mum, but I do not like how Whisky Ben shouts at her. At the time, I think it's strange that my grandad has the name Whisky.  

In quiet moments, I start to wonder: is he the evil that Granny was referring to when we read the Holy Book?

I think no such thoughts of Uncle James, although that summer, he isn't pleased. He keeps saying, 'They bloody stole him; they might have as well given him away.'

He is talking about Kenny Dalglish's move from Celtic to Liverpool for a record fee. 

But what Uncle James is sensing is that King Kenny – as the Celtic fans call him – is too big for the Scottish game, and whoever signs him – whether they pay one pound or one billion pounds - has just made one of the best signings ever in the history of the game.

And that was the summer of 1977. 

I go back to London and my school, St. Josephs Roman Catholic School in Chelsea. 

I love school. I am the brightest kid in the class and the best footballer. My nickname is 'Skills’. I am often called into the older boy's games, where I dribble past boys much bigger than me, and score on a very regular basis. 

Mr. Shaw, a Yorkshireman through and through, is my sports teacher. He plays the piano and loves his cricket. So do I. 

Like Grandad Jock with Benny Lynch, or Uncle James with Celtic, I lap up Mr. Shaw's cricket stories. I ask so many questions that he gives me his Wisden’s Cricket Year Book in a vain attempt to stem my incessant probing.

Mr. Shaw runs cricket games after school in the playground, and when he takes his turn to bat, he says he is Viv Richards, the great West Indian batsman. 'Right, out the way,’ he announces in his gruff Yorkshire accent. ‘Here comes the greatest batsman ever into bat, King Vivian Richards Shaw.'

Then he orders us to bowl at him so that he can smash the ball around the playground in pure King Viv style. 

His behaviour reminds me of the teacher in the Ken Loach film Kes, who insists on being Bobby Charlton when playing football with the kids.

Sometimes, when my dad arrives to pick me up, he joins in with the games. He and Mr. Shaw are always talking about football or cricket and like each other. I love those games, father and son, pupil and teacher, teacher and parent, all joined in laughter and banter.

Mr. Shaw is a Leeds fan. He teaches me how to pass the ball with the side of my foot when most of my mates were toe poking it. I still remember his words to this day.

'John, when players’ toe-poke the ball, it loses direction where the ball is going. Gently pass with the side of your foot, and it will always go where you want it to go.' 

He takes my game to another level. I call that excellent teaching.

Miss Bryant is my year teacher. She organised the Nativity play and cast me as Joseph. We spent hours and hours together as I learnt my lines. 

The award I received at assembly for my performance as Joseph was given to me by Miss Bryant. As she gave me the award, she hugged me and told me she was so proud of me.

I am her star pupil. Then one day, she is not in class. Another teacher explains Miss Bryant's house has been burgled, and she will be in later. 

In the meantime, the school decides to get her some flowers and a card. I am asked to give her these presents. 

When I hand them over, she starts to cry and gives me another one of her big hugs. I go back to my desk feeling so pleased with life in general. 

The next day, with lessons finished, I play football in the playground. It is a tight game, but with seconds to go, I receive the ball, skip past one, nutmeg another, and then unleash a shot which I know from the second it leaves my foot, is a glorious goal. 

My team pile on top of me, I have scored the winner again, and then I am heading home, victory and acclaim shining inside of me. 

I can't wait to tell my mum about my last-minute goal, and I can't wait to see what's for dinner that night. 

I am starving. 

Before going into the house, I tell my neighbour, Paul, about the goal I scored in the top corner. ‘You should have seen it. Bang! Like Supermac.’

‘Good for you John!’ Pauls says with a huge grin. ‘You’ll play for the Arsenal one day.’

I then run into the house. 'Mum! Mum. Guess what? I scored….'

I open the kitchen door just in time to see my dad pull back his fist and smash it straight into my mum's face. The punch is a good one, and it sends my mum straight to the floor.

'You shit cunt,' screams my dad. I freeze.

As my dad moves towards my mum, something inside makes me move backwards, away. I turn out of the kitchen. I slowly creep up the stairs. Careful now. Don't want to be heard.

Halfway up the stairs, I am momentarily stopped by the unmistakable sound of a fist hitting a bone.

'You're fucking drunk,' screams my dad. 'Again.' 

I climb upwards. Softly. I reach my bedroom and sit very still on my bed. More violence is executed downstairs. I wait for it to stop. I pray for it to stop.

And when it does, the silence lays uneasily on my shoulders, and the light inside of me slowly fades.

****************************************************************

Life slowly goes back to normal. Both mum and dad try to appear as their usual selves, and it works. Soon, I am telling myself, it didn’t really happen. And, if it had happened, then it would never happen again.

And then death intervened. Twice.  Grandad Jock has died. But no one tells me how, or why. This confuses me. I ask everyone but I am fobbed off at every turn. 

‘You don’t need to know how, just that it happened. Alright?’ is what every adult tells me. This deeply adds to my loss, a pain that is doubled when I am not allowed to attend his funeral, which takes place in Soho. 

It now dawns on me that from now on, there will be no more coin tricks, no more treats, and, above all, no more Benny Lynch stories. Yet, still no one will tell mow how he died.

Not long after this terrible blow, my beloved Granny in Scotland died. 

I discover this when I walk downstairs from my bedroom for breakfast to see my mum sitting at the kitchen table, looking very upset. I walk over to her. 

She hugs me and says, ‘Granny died John. She’s gone to heaven.’

‘Gone to heaven?’ I ask.  Okay, Granny has gone to heaven but can I still visit to get my packet of sweets and glass of Irn Bru from her?  

The whole family travels up to Scotland for the funeral. I am told that granny is lying in an open coffin in her bedroom. I am taken into the room where she lies in an open casket. I feel tears gather in my eyes. 

‘Would you like to kiss Granny?’ asks one of my uncles.

Hysteria envelopes me.  ‘No! No! No!’ I scream. And I run away from the coffin. As I do the dam breaks and the grief pours out of me, accompanied by my loud sobs.

I stayed at the house with all the other kids, looked after by one of my aunties. Children were not accepted at funerals in those days. 

Later, at the wake, my mother seems very thirsty. She keeps refilling her glass until my dad comes over.

‘Haven’t you had enough yet?’

‘My mother is dead.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘Yes I have.’

My dad moves a step towards her.

‘Oh, in front of the boy again?’ she says.

My dad looks down at me and then walks off.

That night I lie in bed sobbing my little heart out, saying my mantra over and over again - I am never going to see Granny again, I am never going to see Granny again, I am never going to see Granny again.

-SESSION 1- 

‘It sounds like John that was your first experience of loss. Can you remember how you felt as that little boy when your granny died?’

‘I was absolutely devastated. It was the first time I remember crying. I lay there sobbing all night, saying the words, ‘I am never going to see granny again.

Even though it was such a long time ago, the memories are still vivid. I was just heartbroken and life seemed really unfair.’

‘What was it about Granny that you loved so much?’ 

‘Firstly, I would like to say, whose bloody idea was it to allow a seven-year-old boy to be traumatised by seeing his dead granny’s body in her coffin when they knew how much I loved her. I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral but I am allowed to see her dead in her coffin in her bedroom lying on her bed and then you ask me would you like to kiss granny. Good decision making adults; let’s traumatise a child today.    

Anyway, Granny was a gentle lady who was so kind and used to tell me that I was her favourite grandchild, maybe it’s because I played Joseph and she was a devout Catholic. 

My cousin Tim used to say that he was her favourite but I knew I was. She used to tuck me up in bed every night with a glass of Irn Bru and a packet of Spangles, not information I shared with my dentist but I loved it.’

‘So it sounds like you felt very safe with Granny and because of this you really loved her. Were you aware of how your granny passed away?’

‘I think she had a heart attack because even though she never drank she was a heavy smoker and used to smoke Senior Service cigarettes I remember. Granny and Whisky Ben used to sleep in different bedrooms which even at my young age I remember thinking was strange. The reason was that Whisky Ben was an alcoholic. In fact, he was a violent alcoholic who used to go to the pub, drink all the families’ money, where there was often no money for food, and then come home from the pub and beat Granny and the kids up. I obviously didn’t know this at the time but found it out later. Another thing that I found out was that granny’s family did not want her to marry him because her family were very well educated and probably saw what a man he was but Granny fell in love and that was that. 

When Granny died, my mum invited her dad, Whisky Ben, down to stay with us in London. One night he fell asleep downstairs in an armchair with a cigarette alight and set fire to the armchair. My dad, getting up to go to the toilet, smelt smoke, went downstairs and saw Whisky Ben passed out with the armchair alight. My dad told me if he never got up to go to the toilet the whole place would have gone up and there were no smoke alarms in houses those days.   

To answer your question; I suppose all the smoking and the strains of living with an active alcoholic, maybe the beatings she took, had an effect on her small body and it gave up. I felt robbed as that child and wanted answers and kept asking my mum who killed granny.’ 

‘So your mum grew up in this environment with an alcoholic father who used to come home drunk and beat up everyone, wife and children together? How do you feel about what your mum went through in her childhood?’ 

‘Real sadness what that little girl would have been watching and the fear she felt. Whisky Ben