The Sunday Reflection #25 - Where did it all go right?

 Have you ever seen Mel Brooks classic film "The Producers". Not the rubbish 2005 remake, but the proper 1967 version with Gene Wilder and Zero Mostel. The premise is that a dodgy theatre producer decides to put on the worst, least successful play ever, which is guaranteed to bomb and close on the first night. The reason? His naive accountant has realised that you can make more money getting lots of investors and then having a massive flop and keeping all of their money. They get the worst scrip (a play called Spingtime for Hitler, written by a Nazi (Zero Mostel's character is a Jewisg film producer), the worst actors, they make it into a musical and have lavish scenes celebrating the genius of Hitler. They try and bribe the uncorruptable Theatre critic of the New York Times to give it a good review, knowing he'll be refused and outraged. The only problem? The fans love it, they think it's a spoof taking the rise out if the Nazis. As the true magnitude of what has happened hits them, Zero Mostel turns to his accountant, Gene Wilder and said  "We got the wrong play, the wrong director, the wrong cast. Where did we go right?" It is one of my favourite cinematic moments. I'd put a clip, but do yourself a favour and watch the whole film.

Where did we go right? It could be the mantra of my life. All of my greatest successes have been complete accidents. All of my best plans, complete disasters. At school, I had it drummed into me that I was a useless good for nothing. I recently wrote a blog about the abuse I had to endure at the lower school at Finchley Catholic High School at the hands of headmaster Danny Coughlan. Quite a few people have commented on this. There was one detail that I left out, as it was, in hindsight, rather funny. I used to take the 221 bus from school to Avondale Avenue and then walk to the site. I hated school and I often missed the bus and was late. This meant a trip to 'the office' to sign in. This usually resulted in a detention, unless you had a good excuse. If you said the bus was late, they would say "Well 20 other boys weren't late". Generally only a death in the family, or an atomic bomb attack would get you off the hook. I would always try an excuse. On one particular day, as I waited for the bus, I bumped into Fr Sheil, one of the Priests at The Sacred Heart. We had a chat about the weekends football. He was a wonderful man. He then asked if I could serve mass that evening, as someone on the alter server rota for the 7.30 mass was ill. I agreed, I didn't mind, as he said quick masses and would give us all a few sweets after and have a chat about football. It was simpler times and that was a pretty good evening for us. It meant I didn't have to endure Coronation Street with my mum. 

When the bus came, it was empty. I went upstairs. On one of the seats was a discarded copy of The Sun. Mum wouldn't have it in the house for a number of reasons. I opened it up and on page 3 was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, staring at me completely topless. I was smitten. I took the page out, folded it up and put it in my pocket, for future inspection. Anyway, I got to the office. I went to sign in and I explained that I'd bumped into Fr Sheil. There was an alter servers crisis and he'd asked me to step in. 

A clotehd Jilly Johnson & friend

The secretary said "If I ring the Presbertery at the Sacred Heart, they will confirm this?" I said, with full confidence yes. She said "We will call them and if he says you are lying, you will be in massive trouble". I was confident I'd be OK, fairly smug really and was just about to go to my class, when Danny Coughlan shouted "Tichborne, what are you doing?". I explained that I'd been to the office to sign in for being late. I was just about to give my speel when he said "Turn out your pockets". I have no idea why. I'd forgotten I'd put the newspaper page in, when I pulled it out, he looked at the pert breasts of Jilly Johnson (I think).

He looked at it and raged. I was summoned to come straight to his office. I knew I was in massive trouble. There was no way I could talk my way out of this. Coughlan was a religious fundamentalist and saw one of his missions to beat sexual desires out of the boys in his charge, if there were any overt signs of lust.

So here I was. He towered over me and glowered. Then he said "Tichborne, are you a sexual pervert?". I didn't actually know what a sexual pervert was. I'd only heard the term once, when my Mum got flashed by a man on a bicycle in Mill Hill Park. I hadn't (and still haven't) ever flashed at anyone, so I answered "No Sir". He then said "Yes you are, you were planning to take this disgusting picture home, have filthy thoughts and defile yourself, weren't you?". I said "No Sir". He then screamed "Well what were you going to do?". I replied "I don't know Sir, the picture was on the bus, I just put it in my my pocket as I didn't want to leave it there". This rather stopped him in his tracks. I think if I'd said it was filth and I was going to put it in the bin before young children saw it, I may have evern got away with it. But he then changed tack. He said "Do you know what this woman is?". I replied "She's and actress". He raged "No she's not, she's a scrubber!". I 'd not heard the term. He then said "Do you like looking at this picture. Do you like scrubbers?". Now, we all know what the correct answer was, but Coughlan seemed to know when you were lying. Besides, I really don't like telling lies, so I said "Erm, actually I think she's very pretty". This was not the answer he expected. He said "You think scrubbers are pretty?". What could I say? Jilly Johnson was clearly rather pretty. "Erm yes sir, I do"? At this he lost the plot completely. He screamed "Tichborne, you are a pervert. Come back and see me before you leave for home, I will deal with this then, get out, you disgust me".

I spent the rest of the day in terror. I thought I was going to get expelled, caned, shot, hung drawn and quartered and excommunicated". At hometime, I made my way to his office. I knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again, no answer. Maybe he'd forgotten. I didn't know what to do, Sadly, this was one of his games. Just as I was about to shuffle off, he opened the door. He said "I have a letter for your father, under no circumstances give it to him when your mother is present. It will distress her". He then said "I have marked your card. You are a sexual pervert. If I ever catch you with anything like this again, I will expell you, get out". 

It was a long bus journey home. I knew I was going to get clobbered. I then remembered that I also had to serve at mass at 7.30pm. I also knew that they'd spoken to Fr Sheil and in light of what transpired, he'd probably been told  I was a pervert as well. As I was not to show Mum, I decided to bit the bullet. I went straight to MacMetals, my Dad's car crash repair business. What happened next was, shall we say, comical. Dad was playing cards with a couple of his workmen. I just wanted it out of the way, so I said "Dad, I'm in trouble, Mr Coughlan gave me this letter and said I had to give it to you immediately". The workmen, all scalliwags, looked on rather amused. Dad, slightly irritated that I'd interrupted his cards, also glared. He opened the letter. He pulled out the page from The Sun first. He looked at it and said "Blimey, why is Danny Coughlan sending me porn?". He took a few moments to admire Jilly Johnson's fine figure then passed it around to the men. They were very approving and complimentary. Dad looked puzzled. He then saw the letter. He took it out, read it and burst out laughing. 

He then read it out to his workmen. I can't recall the exact words, but it went something like this "Dear Mr Tichborne, This morning, I caught your son with the enclosed disgusting pornographic materials. Your son admitted that he found the picture sexually exciting and was keeping it for depraved purposes later. Your son also admitted that he found such women attractive. I am sure, that as a respected Roman Catholic father, you will take the necessary measures to ensure that yoru son does not grow up in the grip of such perversion, your sincerely Mr Coughlan". 

None of those at the table could contain their laughter. Dad then said "Was this the only picture". I replied "Yes". He then said "Blimey". He then said "Are you mad taking it to school?".  NI replied "I found it on the bus". He then signed the return slip and said "Don't get caught again" and dismissed me and returned to his game of cards. I couldn't believe it. When Dad got home, he'd thought about it. He said "When you take that letter to Coughlan, tell him I was disgusted and clobbered you, then he'll be happy". Don't mention it to Mum, she hates the Sun. 

About a week later, I was again down at the yard. In the gents toilet, one of the blokes had put the picture on the back of the loo door. They'd written Roger's girlfriend on it. It was there for about five years. I was really confused. Was I a pervert? Was there something wrong with me finding Jilly Johnson attractive? When I returned the letter to Coughlan, he informed me that I was a wrong 'un. If I liked scrubbers, I'd never have a proper nice Catholic girlfriend or wife. I'd have a life of misery and end up hanging around in Soho. If I had children, they'd be bastards born out of wedlock and grow up hating me. He described it as 'the wages of sin' if my memory serves me correctly.

He was right about one thing. Mrs T is not a Catholic, but she's proper and she's nice. Next April will be our 30th wedding anniversary. My kids were not born out of wedlock and as best I can tell they all like me most of the time. So where did it all go right for me ? How could some who;s headmaster describerd as a depraved pervert, who was 'never going to have a nice girlfriend' get it all so right? The question has troubled me for many years. Of course Coughlan was right about one thing. The Sun is a horrible rag and I wouldn't have it in the house after its demonisation of Liverpool fans, but I suspect that the sight of the luscious Jilly Johnson would bother him far more than dishonest reporting. In truth, Coughlan did me a massive favour. It clarified something that had been troubling me at the time. His behaviour in RE lessons and other aspects of the way he rn the school was clearly highly dysfunctional, but he was an authority figure. I knew my elder brothers had an intense dislike of him, but I had thought that as the head of the lowerschool, he should be respected. My Dad's response to his letter and the way the blokes who worked for Dad reacted made it abundantly clear that they all thought he was an idiot. I realised that being 13 and looking anjoying seeing a topless picture of Jilly Johnson did not make me a pervert. I was not like the fellow who flashed at Mum in Mill Hill park.

So in answer to the question. It started to go right for me, when I realised that sometimes the people in authority and power are complete idiots and you have to think for yourself. Even if I'd wanted to 'not fancy' Jilly Johnson, as a heterosexual male aged 13, that wasn't going to happen, that's how we are wired. So I stopped worrying about what religious zealots thought about me, as well as everyone else I concluded was an idiot. Once I got rid of all of that ridiculous baggage, life became a whole lot easier.