Nerd Do Well (10 page)

The rest of the act consisted of me demonstrating how I administered discipline with a whistle while wearing ill-fitting shorts. I also performed comedy poems, having witnessed the brilliant comic and poet John Hegley on BBC2’s festival highlights show,
Edinburgh Nights
. The poems mainly dealt with my hopeless infatuation with a girl whose heart I eventually won but who five years later spectacularly broke mine, filling me with enough impotent rage to smash a window with my fist and wind up in the casualty department of the Hendon Garden Hospital. However, it all seems formative and necessary in hindsight, since it gave me the emotional reference to create the wounded comic-book artist Tim Bisley and the opportunity to escape a lifestyle that through domestic routine had rendered me somewhat inert. She’ll crop up a few times here and there since she was something of a muse at one point and instrumental in my making the move to London where things really started to happen for me. Out of respect for her, and in the spirit of the Meredith Catsanus approach to dignity-preserving pseudonyms, she will henceforth be known as Eggy Helen. I’m sure she won’t mind. She’s been referred to indirectly before in
Spaced
, although in that instance she was called Sarah.

The second most frequent subject of my comedic ditties were the inner, often political thoughts of my goldfish, which would always accompany me onstage. I’ll talk about that in more detail later. For now, while we’re poolside, here’s an old poem about some of the more power-hungry guardians of the gurgle I used to share the staffroom with at the Gloucester Leisure Centre.

Get out of my swimming pool, Jack!

Wild and whistle-happy, cries a megalomaniac,

With his Hi-Tecs on the tiles and his hands behind his back,

He’s making up for problems that he’s having in the sack.

Because every angry spasm,

Is a failed orgasm,

That is waiting in the chasm of his deep end,

Round the bend,

Will these problems never end?

His poolish pride he can defend

But in bed . . .

He’s only running round the side.

My own authoritarian poolside persona, ready to admonish bad behaviour or dive in at a second’s notice to save a stricken bather (in two years of lifeguarding I never had to resuscitate anybody, or indeed even get my uniform wet), wasn’t quite the little Hitler of the poem, although I learned quickly that a little power was a dangerous thing. I often caught myself looking a bit serious, while chewing my whistle like a cigar, or shaking my head with grim prohibitive insistence at a young splasher, as if he were about to steal a priceless magic diamond.

When I joined the lifeguarding core, the pool had just been refurbished with two large water slides, which snaked their way around the outside of the building back inside to a splash pool in a newly constructed annexe. What made these brightly coloured flumes even more fun was the addition of the ‘flash flood’ feature. The sliders would sit themselves in position at the top of the slide, while a huge twenty-gallon tank would fill with water. When it reached the required level, the lifeguard on duty would operate a pedal, which released the built-up water in an explosive torrent, catapulting the screaming rider into the tube and down the slide.

As a lifeguard it was the best of the stations on the rota (shallow end, deep end, flash flood, splash pool), because it was the most fun. The kids absolutely loved it, which was infectious. The adults were almost as easy to wind up; either by withholding the flood blast for an inordinate amount of time, or by unleashing it suddenly at the start without any warning at all.

However, one of the most gratifying tricks one could play at the flash-flood station was one we always reserved for the most obnoxious and annoying children. They would appear at the top of the slide, often resembling the vicious little thugs that held Sean Jeffries and myself hostage, and I would instruct them to lie on their fronts with their heads facing the top of the slide and, on the count of three, scream as loudly as they could. As they opened their mouths, I would kick the release pedal and blast them in the face with twenty gallons of water.

Even as I type this, I’m thinking what an absolute arsehole I was. Sure those kids were annoying but they were only kids. Perhaps the poem was a subconscious admonishment of the man I feared I was becoming. A power-hungry maniac, frustrated by the impotence of the tiny authority he was permitted to wield. I wasn’t referring to myself with the literal impotence stuff – I was nineteen and doing very well in that department, thank you very much. Never in the pool though, that was illegal.

Whatever I was, it was a long way from the nervous young boy whose Saturday-morning swimming practice was often marred by nervous headaches and nausea. Particularly on one occasion, where I vomited boiling orange sick into the toilet bowl in the boys’ changing room and had my tummy rubbed by my swimming instructor. I dimly recall feeling vaguely uncomfortable as this man in his forties vigorously massaged my abdomen. Nothing untoward transpired – this isn’t some heartfelt confession about being taken advantage of – I’m certain he was trying to help me, but I do remember being embarrassed by his touch. Despite his doubtless honourable intent, the idea of administering this kind of tactile therapy to a seven-year-old nowadays would doubtless set great hooting sirens off across the country and rightly so; although perhaps it’s a slight shame for the majority who act with solely good intentions. I remember breaking down in front of my form tutor, Mr Calway, once. I was having a few emotional problems, teenage stuff but nevertheless real and raw. He was being extra hard on me as a means of keeping me focused but it backfired. I asked to speak to him privately and attempted to explain how I was feeling, only to unleash a torrent of tears. He leaned over and patted me on the shoulder when what I really wanted was a hug, which procedural etiquette prevented him from administering.

Not sure where I was going with that, but you’ll be delighted to know all this has been leading up to an account of the third and final swimming-related incident which I regard as a formative moment in my journey towards becoming an actor and a comic.

You might remember Mr Skinner as the teacher who had helped to soothe my bloodstained face following my run-in with the brick wall in Class 5, but he was also our PE and swimming teacher. And a pretty cool one at that. He wasn’t particularly old – junior to the beardless Mr Miller by ten or fifteen years – nevertheless Mr Skinner sported a great full-face beard, which not only projected strength but also suggested the ability to grow hair out of your face. He was tall as well which made him physically imposing for us little people, although that was never his intention.

He had a no-nonsense air about him and his default demeanour was usually one of intense seriousness. What stopped him from being terrifying and served to make him that much cooler was the fact that he was funny, really funny. His approval or his amusement were achievements to be savoured because he always made you feel as though you had earned them. Such was the edifying power of his laughter, I all but forgot I had just scraped half my face off as we filled the sinks with blood in the boys’ toilets on the day Denise Miller drove me to destruction. And the final piece in the jigsaw of cool that made Mr Skinner so hip in our young eyes: he looked great in a tracksuit. It’s perhaps more superficial than some of his other winning attributes but it cemented the physical aspect of his authority. He was clever and sporty, what is often referred to as an all-rounder, and this Clark Kent/Superman duality really upped his stock.

Although not a fan of either playing or watching league football (I half-heartedly supported Liverpool as a kid), I clearly recall the first football lesson I ever attended as a child and a piece of sage advice given to us by Mr Skinner that has stayed with me to this day, which was ‘remember the rope’. This spatial awareness aid served to remind us to consider the proximity of opposing players when passing the ball to fellow team members. We were asked to imagine a fictional rope, stretching between the player we intended to pass the ball to and ourselves. If a player from the opposing team is able reach the rope, then the ball is vulnerable to interception. It makes complete sense and I keep meaning to include it in a letter, which begins, ‘Dear England . . .’

I don’t play football myself but I do use the strategy when kicking balled-up socks across the kitchen to my wife while Minnie tries to intercept. I have also used the expression when watching national games, yelling at a player whose lazy pass has been foiled by a defender. ‘Remember the rope, you fucking prick!’ I will scream with a mouthful of lager and dry-roasted peanuts. This is just one of a number of Mr Skinner-based incidents that have inspired me throughout my life, the biggest of which was the day we both performed an elaborate comedy sketch in front of the entire school.

I wasn’t enjoying swimming lessons at school, and although I had displayed a certain amount of aptitude for a nine-year-old, my aforementioned wariness of swimming pools had rather slowed my progress. Nevertheless I had moved from the beginners group taught by Mrs Hortop, through to the intermediate group taught by Mr Miller, and eventually, and reluctantly, to the advanced group, which was of course taught by Mr Skinner.

My first lesson as an aquatic A-lister didn’t go so well. The group was populated by the kind of sporty kids who had been swimming since they were babies and possessed cool goggles, nose clips, bathing caps and unusually broad shoulders. The lesson required us to swim an alarming number of widths, wearing a pair of nylon pyjamas, which was exhausting and tiring and in my mind pointless, since I usually made an effort not to sleepwalk near large bodies of water.

Psychologically speaking, I couldn’t shake flashbacks to that all-consuming sense of panic I had felt struggling, rubber-ringless, beneath the surface of Gloucester Leisure Centre’s ‘big pool’. After a few lessons of feeling exhausted and literally out of my depth, I approached Mr Skinner and asked him if I could return to the intermediate level. I felt a little pathetic; it was hard to ask for voluntary demotion from a teacher whose respect I craved, but I didn’t really have a choice. Mr Skinner considered my earnest expression for a moment, and obviously detecting something other than laziness in my entreaty, granted my wish. He did, however, make one proviso, this being to buy him a Mars bar as compensation. He smiled at me and sent me off to change, unaware that I had taken his condition very seriously.

But I didn’t want to just hand him the Mars bar like a normal person; I wanted to use the opportunity to play a practical joke on him. The previous Christmas, the object of my desire had been a digital watch. Not the kind with a calculator or the super-slim model that played ‘Scotland the Brave’ or ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’, but the kind with a seemingly blank ruby face which would display the time in glowing red if you pressed a button on the side. It wasn’t entirely practical and its supersession by the grey-faced, silver, ditty-playing next wave of digital timepieces is understandable, since surely the convenience of the wristwatch is that it requires only a glance and does not require any assistance from other digits or limbs. Despite its super-modern feel, in practical terms it was a return to fob-watch fiddliness. At the time, however, the novelty was sufficient to make it highly desirable, and the idea seemed awfully futuristic to this pint-sized sci-fi fan. Also, nobody else in my class had one, making me at the vanguard of new-wave timepiecery.

Christmas drew nearer and presents began to stack up beneath the tree. Every day I would survey the packages, attempting to identify the one that must surely contain my brand-new digital watch. However, the elusive little box failed to materialise and on Christmas morning, having scored an impressive haul of toys and games (that I now wish I’d kept boxed and never played with), I came to my main gift. This last remaining package represented the grand finale to the day’s gifting; the crescendo to which all the other presents had been building. But, the box was big and, although still exciting, couldn’t possibly contain a digital watch. I hastily tore off the wrapping to find a nondescript box, inside which was another wrapped box. This happened several times until I eventually got down to a small square box.

I was buzzing with excitement, and inside, just as I had hoped, was the watch, all the sweeter for coming as a complete surprise. I remember thinking what a clever way to deliver a shock and still give me exactly what I had asked for. It was this cunning practical joke that I borrowed from my parents the following year when delivering Mr Skinner’s Mars bar. I wrapped it in a box and placed the box within a box, then wrapped up that box. I repeated the process several times until the chocolate bar was housed at the heart of six boxes and appeared to be something far bigger. I inscribed the gift card:
To Mr Skinner, Just like I promised.

I took the gift into school, snuck into Mr Skinner’s classroom when he was off somewhere else being cool in a tracksuit, and left it on his desk. That lunchtime he found the gift and began to open it. I watched through the glass in the door as he negotiated his way through box after box. Mr Miller was in the classroom with him and I remember seeing him hooting with laughter, slapping his good knee as each new box presented itself. I ran back to my classroom before they emerged and sat in my seat the very picture of well-behaved innocence.

Mr Miller entered the room shaking his head and laughing and asked if any of us had given Mr Skinner the present. I remained silent. A few moments later, Mr Skinner entered the room and playfully demanded to know who had left him the cryptic offering. Still, I didn’t say a word. I realise now, looking back, that I slightly overestimated Mr Skinner’s recollection of his own jokey stipulation, which had meant so much to me. To him it was more of an offhand comment intended to make a young boy feel better about not being a confident swimmer.