Ten years ago, I published a series of three blogs that detailed my experiences of schooling as a dyslexic in the 1960's and 1970's. I have republished them today, as they have turned into some of the most important episodes of this blog. What inspired me to revisit the series is the number of comments that the blogs, especially episode two have attracted. My comments about the education provided by Finchley Catholic High School and its teachers have spurred a huge number of comments about the school and its predecessors Challoner School and Finchley Grammar School. The blogs were written from my perspective as a dyslexic going through a hostile environment. I had assumed that the blogs would really only be of interest to people with an interest in dyslexia wanting a first hand experience of education for dyslexics in the last century. What I have found is that there is a huge well of people who attended my old school who feel desperately let down, for want of a better phrase, by the school.
When I read the comments on blog two in the series, I see a horrific glimpse into a thankfully long gone world. Here is just one comment that gives you some idea of what people had to say "If you left the school in 1969, you might recall a school year, a year or two earlier, when Coughlan's daily 'caning queues' reduced to almost zero? I was subsequently told that Coughlan ensured 'discipline' returned to normal the very next scholastic year!". Can you imagine a school with 'caning queues' today? In many ways, the comments on blog two are far more interesting than the actual blog.
Interestingly, when I wrote the blog, my son was at Finchley Catholic High School. When I left, I vowed I'd never set foot in the place again. Yet my son went there. What happened. The most important thing was that the school changed, as did education in the UK. Thankfully, none of my children are dyslexic. After my experiences, I would not wish that on anyone. Even more importantly, none of my children were beaten at school. When I was at FCHS and getting regularly clobbered, I just assumed that if you were a child and you were naughty at school, or if the teachers decided you had been, to be more accurate, you got beaten. I assumed that if we weren't regularly clobbered, we'd all run riot. I was wrong. None of my kids ran riot at school. They had their own challenges, but they never had that sick feeling in the pit of their stomach, where you are sent to the headmaster and you know you will be thrashed. It is bad enough when you've been naughty and been caught, but when you've not and a teacher has randomly decided you are the culprit, because you are a troublemaker, it is difficult to take.
I was a very immature and angry person. My response was to lash out and get even. I did many stupid things and realised that when you get your revenge, it is far better to plan it and execute it in such a way that you get away with it. I have a confession to make here. One I am not proud of. A mate of mine joined me on a mission to break into the then headmaster of FCHS's office in the summer holiday. We trashed it and read some of his files on us. Back then, there was no CCTV. We had a cunning plan. After reading our files, we carefully placed our records back. The files contained all manner of incorrect assumptions and a clear bias against me, based on personal dislike. The one thing that really shocked me,was that my record stated that I had "homosexual and deviant tendencies which pose a risk to other students". Given that I do not, this was shocking to me. The reason? I'd been sent home for wearing dayglo pink socks that were a punk fashion in 1977. Years later, my mother told me that the head had informed her I had homosexual tendencies. She asked what I had done. He replied "He came to school in pink socks". My mother apparently replied "Elvis Presley wears pink socks and he's definitely not a homosexual". We saw all manner of things that were incorrect about our mates as well. There was a moment where we looked at each other and simply said "How can they write this rubbish".
We then found the records of people we didn't like, from other classes, and left them out , having scrawled comments on them, indicating that the contents of the file were inaccurate. We figured that the school would assume they were the perpetrators. It was the summer after I left the school. I never knew what the fallout, if any was, but PC plod never knocked on my door. We were very careful to make a mess and only damage the personal possessions of the headmaster. We took great delight in defacing the picture of him receiving his degree, in his gown and cap. We added a Hitler moustache and a few rude words. We wore gloves on the mission, so we left no trace. . I took great pleasure in trashing the office. It was a cathartic moment. The man had abused me, both mentally and physically. I am now an adult and do not advocate violence and vandalism, but I do not regret doing that.
After the 'raid' we vowed never to speak of it again. We realised that the consequences would be serious, even though we'd not broken anything and just made a mess. I've not seen my fellow perpetrator in decades. What troubles me, to this day, is my lack of regret. I realise that it was most likely the cleaners, etc who had to sort the mess out. I am sure the Headmaster was furious at his picture being defaced. I can't say I'm sorry, but other than that and some graffiti on the wall, there was nothing that wouldn't be tidied up in ten minutes. In truth, I was brimming with anger at the time. I hated the man and felt that it was the least he deserved. It is the only time in my life I've ever vandalised anything. About a week after, I had a terrible nightmare about it. I dreamed that the police had caught me and I was going to court. I was facing a prison sentence and it seemed like the whole school was there to denounce me and express their disappointment in me. To this day, I can remember waking up and feeling terrified. I am not cut out to be a criminal, the dream was my minds way of reminding me such things are not OK.
By September, I was at Orange Hill School. My experience there, as I told in episode three, was positive. I never caused trouble, I never got caned. I even got asked to arrange the music for a reception for the Deputy Headmaster. He confided that when I'd joined the school, they'd been informed I was a troublemaker and not to let me join. He said that he was pleasantly surprised. I explained that it was because I was at a well run school. This wasn't brown nosing, it was the truth. When I had gone to Orange Hill for an interview with the head master, prior to joining, he asked me a series of searching questions. I realised that he must have received my school file. As I'd read this, I had my answers ready. I explained that I had a personality clash with the Head at FCHS and I believed he'd developed an irrational dislike of me. I was able to give a couple of examples. As many of the comments in the file referenced my lack of a good Roman Catholic ethos, I also made a point of saying that he only really liked good Catholic boys from Irish families. The Head master chuckled and said "I get the feeling he certainly disliked you". Orange Hill was not in any way religious.
But my dyslexia has never gone away. I still under achieved at Orange Hill. I do not blame the school. Doing A Levels was absolutely the edge of my academic capacity. Completing exams in the allotted time was simply unfeasible. The problem is, I have to read every question three times. My brain processes the information far more slowly. I get the answers right, but I simply can't complete the papers in time. I always failed to answer a couple of questions. I also had to read back through my answers to ensure I hadn't written things the wrong way around. Add to that the pressure of the environment. These days, dyslexics get extra time. Ignorant commentators claim this is unfair. Why? Exams are meant to measure your knowledge, not your capacity to write it down as quickly as possible.
My schooling taught me many things. Some of them are things that no child should need to learn. I learned that if I was pushed, I was capable of bad things and that I had no guilt about these things. I leaned that people in authority abuse their position. I learned that people in authority, who keep records, get things completely wrong. I learned that if you dig too deeply you learn some very disturbing things. I learned that there are files written about you, which you will never see. There may well be things in them that will affect your life choices. I have also learned that there are massive omissions in such files. For instance, no mention of the fact that I was dyslexic. I wasn't diagnosed, but competent teachers should have figured it out after four and a half years at the school. There was no mention of any of the good things I'd done whilst at the school. I am a natural organiser and our form had done well in fund raising exercises in our early years at the school. There was no mention of the endless requests for better music provision (although there were comments about delusions of grandeur).
What I have come to realise is that being dyslexic and having an above average intelligence was a very toxic mix in the 1960's and 70's. I was always going to fail educationally, but I had the wit and the wherewithal to thrive. I was extremely adaptive and I am a survivor. When I re-read the three blogs before starting this episode, it brought it all back. The anger, the pain, the sense of injustice. It interests me that the second blog, where I talk about the worst time has attracted dozens of comments, whilst the third, where I get my life together has attracted zero. It seems that the stress and pain rings a bell with a lot of people. It worries me that rising above it receive less interest.
And here I am. I am sixty two years old and doing fine. I have moved on. Writing those three blogs has helped.
In part one and part two of this seriesI talked about my experiences up to the age of 14 (ish) and how dyslexia affected my life and my education. Up until now, it must have all seemed very negative and very difficult. This period will deal with the period from June 6th 1977 until the 13 December 1980. It may seem odd to have picked two such random dates, but there is a reason. I was 14 on June 6th 1977. This was the day I saw New York Punk legends The Ramones at the Roundhouse. The 13th December 1980 was the day I performed my first gig in public at the Harwood Hall in Mill Hill.
You may wonder what all this has to do with dyslexia? Well when I woke up on June 6th 1977, I wasn't particularly interested in music, I couldn't play a musical instrument, I was doing badly at school and I was very unhappy. As I now have a teenage son who has just turned 15, it gives me a degree of insight into my own mood and behaviour. At that age most teenagers are moody. Hormones kick in and we feel as if our world is being turned on its head. If you weren't particularly happy in the first place, it is a miserable time. I had no confidence. I had an interest in girls, but I felt that I was so completely useless that I was scared stiff of them (no pun intended). School was a nightmare. The headmaster of the school I was at hated my guts and missed no opportunity to try and ridicule and humiliate me. Many people must feel like that, but I actually had documentary proof of it. The reason for his animosity was due to the fact that he taught our class religious studies and I had the audacity to argue with him on matters religious. The odd thing was that at the time I was quite a firm believer in Roman Catholicism, but I could see that some of the doctrines were, shall we say, at odds with the realities of society in the 1970's. We clashed during a debate on the subject of birth control. When I quoted various figures at him from the WHO, he blew a fuse and I got a letter to my parents on the subject. From that day forth, I had no future at FCHS. Sadly at the time, I just saw him as a man of respect and assumed it was me who had the problem.
Anyway, June 6th was the day before Queen Elizabeths silver jubilee. I'd been vaguely aware of punk rock. I'd seen the infamous Bill Grundy interview with the Sex Pistols. I'd thought it was funny. My mum, who had six kids was disgusted. I'd not actually heard any of their music though. I didn't listen to music. I went around to see my sister, who was living in a flat around the corner. She had got tickets to see the Ramones, Talking Heads and the Saints at the Roundhouse. She asked me if I'd like to go. I'd never heard the Ramones, so she played me "Sheena is a Punk Rocker". It sounded OK, nothing special. My sister had a friend who I quite fancied (they were both 18) and was very pretty and I thought that it was a chance to see a bit of her. I didn't think I had a chance, but I just enjoyed being around her friend. She was one of the very few people who'd always been nice to me. So I thought "why not". We turned up at the Roundhouse and one of the good things was my sister would always get me a few beers, which was one thing I did enjoy (yes I know 14 year olds shouldn't drink). My mum had told my sister that if I "turned out bad" it would all be her fault. Anyway, The Saints were first on. They'd just flown over from Australia, they made a right old racket. As my Dad was an Aussie, I felt I should like them, but again it was nothing special. Next up were the Talking Heads. After The Saints, I found them a bit bemusing. I'd never heard of them, and beleive it or not I thought they were a Country and Western band. I was fascinated by the bassplayer Tina Weymouth. Their keynote song was "Psycho Killer" with a very distinctive bassline. I was intrigued by the way Tina's breasts moved in time with the bass. I was a 14 year old boy after all. At this point, I had the experience marked down as mildly enjoyable. Not as good as football, but a bit better than playing table tennis at the youth club. Then the Ramones came on. If you never saw the Ramones in their heyday, it is impossible to describe the experience. Even watching live videos doesn't convey the raw power and force of the band. In all my life, I've never had a more life changing experience. They walked on, shouted 1234 and played 30 minutes of mindblowing punk rock. All too soon, they'd done their final encore of Pinhead, with its coda of "Gabba Gabba Hey". In those 30 minutes, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. The thing about the Ramones was they were a) Ugly, b) Were not very technically gifted musicians and c) were a million times better live than any other band that has ever lived. They opened my eyes. The thing about the Ramones was that it wasn't what they did, it was they way they did it.
Over the following weeks, I started to buy punk rock albums. There used to be a record shop in Mill Hill Broadway. The first album I purchased was "Puremania" by The Vibrators. I knew nothing about Punk Rock, but I liked the cover. They became my favourite band. Other albums followed. The Damned, The Buzzcocks, The Clash, The Sex Pistols, The Heartbreakers. Although I was only a kid, I started going to see as many gigs as I possibly could. I did a paper round, worked in the butchers and washed cars at my Dads car repair firm. All of this money was spent on albums and gigs. I bought the NME and read it from cover to cover. I listened to John Peel every night, as he was a great source of new bands to check out. All of a sudden, life was exciting and life had meaning.
At FCHS, music passed the vast majority of the pupils by. Most of my classmates were more interested in prog rock. Most hated punk and there were even a bunch of Teds, who I didn't get on with. In fact I only had three or four mates at school who liked punk. The most important of these was Pete Conway, who had been a mate since primary school. Pete was an incredibly bright guy. A natural poet and a great wit. He was, like me, a deeply troubled soul, for reasons I've nver fathomed. His Dad had high hopes for him, but the two had ceased to get on. Pete should have got O levels and A levels and gone to Oxford, but he decided to simply stop bothering. By mid 1978, we'd decided to form a band. The trouble was, neither of us had any instruments and we couldn't play. Our education at Finchley finished in 1978, Pete just stopped going and I got expelled a week before the O levels, following an altercation with the headmaster.
The circumstances of my expulsion have always rankled. The headmaster had tried to expel me in in November 1977 for writing obscene comments about a female member of staff on a school survey. I hadn't done this, another boy in another class had done it "for a laugh" and put my name on it. I knew who did it, but I refused to grass them up to the headmaster and refused to believe "my story". As I was waiting outside his office as he tried to contact my parents, John Shuttler, who was the physics teacher and is a great bloke walked past. He asked what was up. I explained. He told me to tell him the name of the boy who'd done it. I refused. He said "If you tell me, I'll sort it out and I'll make sure he doesn't get into trouble". So I told him. John Shuttler was one of the few teachers I trusted. He was also a great physics teacher. He was good to his word. He actually told me he couldn't believe that something was being blown out of all proportion. Given that the saidf questionaire said that one of the improvements was to "cut his wife's tits off" (she was also a teacher), I thought he was really decent. I am sure that being a sensible guy, he just saw it as a bunch of hormonal, emotionally stunted teenagers expressing their appreciation in a rather silly way. He actually persuaded the boy who wrote it to come forward and confess his guilt to the head. What happened next was quite surreal. We stood before the headmaster. Me having done nothing wrong and the boy who had done it, having confessed his guilt and apologising to Mr Shuttler for the comments about his missus. The headmaster then turned to me and said "You are lucky this fine young lad has chosen to speak up for you. If I'd had my way you'd have been out of the door". No apology, nothing. At that second, I lost all respect for the man and his school. I felt very angry. John Shuttler invited me into his office and we had a long chat. He explained that he thought I was intelligent and could go to university. He said I had a natural talent for physics.
How do you think I responded? You will be disappointed to know that I responded very badly. A couple of days later, I was caught writing obscene graffiti on the toilet walls about Mr Shuttlers wife. Have you ever done something and not had a clue why. I really liked the pair of them, but I was so angry about my treatment that I did it to get back at the school. And you may wonder what Mr Shuttler did next? What would you do? Well, as I said, he's a top banana. He took me to his office, with the head of year. They agreed that it would not be good to tell the headmaster. They asked why I'd done it. I said that I was just really angry about the school. He asked me if I'd considered how he felt when he saw rude things written about his wife on the toilet wall? The answer was, of course I hadn't. I was an immature kid who was lashing out wldley and in totally the wrong direction. I apologised profusely. They conferred and asked me how I intended to make amends. I said "Well I'm studying Painting and decorating, I could repaint the toilets in the Xmas holidays". John Shuttler said "Yes and you can buy the paint". We agreed, between the three of us, that we'd tell no one of why. It was agreed that the story would be that I needed to practice my painting technique. So, I spent the Xmas holiday of 1977 repainting the boys toilets at FCHS at my own expense.
When we returned, John Shuttler again called me into his office. I thought that it was going to be some sort of follow up. He said "thanks for painting the toilets, you did a good job". I apologised, he said "nothing happened, there is nothing to apologise for, we've erased that, haven't we". We then had a chat about music. I found out years later, that he used to build guitar amps under the name "Nolan". They were copies of Marshall valve amps. He then said "I am worried about you, you seem very angry about things". I didn't really understand what he meant, as I wasn't feeling angry when he said it. He then said "I want you to promise me something". As I respected him and felt I owed him big time, I said "Anything, yes of course". He said "Your problem is that when you get angry, you simply lash out. Will you promise me that in future when you are angry, you stop, think about what is making you angry and deal with that in a rational way". I was quite shocked. In his wisdom, he'd clearly analysed what my problem was and why I was behaving badly. He had given me a solution to some of my problems. From that day, I've always tried to abide by that promise. That is why I started writing this blog. It is quite simple really. This was really tested more or less immediately. I had been studying English Literature. We'd had mock O Levels before Xmas. I thought I'd done well in the mock. I had studied quite hard. My reading had significantly improved between the age of 12 and 15. I had actually started reading books. I enjoyed Richard III which was our set book and had read it cover to cover twice. As we were given our marks, I was eagerly expecting a B or a C (great marks for me). Miss Walsh, a bitter ex nun who I didn't get on with, announced my mark with a deadpan voice Roger Tichborne, zero. I couldn't believe it. That was impossible. It turned out that when I'd arrived for the exam, she'd given me the paper for the other group sitting the mock. They were doing the same book. I immediately stood up and started argueing. I was sent out of class. I felt completely stitched up. When the lesson finished, I started arguing again, so she insisted I went up to see the head of year. I stated that the school had given me the wrong paper, so they should mark my answers against the paper I'd been given. Walsh was adamant that this would not happen. The head of year, seemed to have some sympathy for me. He said "Ok, you can resit the exam". Miss Walsh will arrange with you. She said "You must sit it now". So with no preparation, and with all of that stress, I sat the exam again. I scored 37% and was slung out of English literature. I felt incandescent with rage, as I knew I would have passed the O Level.
But in the 1970's you could do nothing. I then recalled my promise to John Shuttler. Deal with the source of your anger. I wasn't going to have an O Level in English Literature. I could do nothing about Miss Walsh stitching me up. Or could I? I am illiterate. I couldn't even pass an exam in English Literature. It occurred to me that there was a way of getting revenge. Like Machiavelli, it would be served very cold. Until that point, I'd vaguely thought about putting a band together, but I realised that if I wrote songs and played in a band and was successful, it would be a big two fingers up at the school and Miss Walsh. Unfortunately, this decison had a poor effect on my academic career. In my mocks, I scored B's and C's in all subjects. As I spent every night playing music and writing songs, I neglected studies. I got four O levels. Building Studies - Decoration and Design, RE (I got a B, worked hard at it to stick two fingers up at the Headmaster), Physics (I owed that to John Shuttler) and English Language (bust my balls for that, to stick 2 fingers up at Miss Walsh, I doubt I'd have passed that without my hatred of her to drive me). I failed Maths, Chemistry and Biology. I was expelled three days before the end of my final term. I had an argument with the headmaster over lateness and so he used it as an excuse. My Dad made a huge fuss and I was allowed to sit the O Levels, on the understanding that I was not allowed to talk to anyone on the school premises apart from teachers.
At that time, I didn't know I was dyslexic. In all of my educational career, I never got an A for anything apart from maths. If I worked hard, I got a C and if I worked hard and had a flair for something, I'd get a B. For some reason, if I applied myself to Maths I found it rather easy. Sadly this backfired in my O level. I got 96% in the mock, so did no work after that, assuming I'd pass. I failed.
I was useless at languages, I was taking French, but no matter how hard I tried, it was simply gobbledygook. Strangely, I've found that I can pick up langauges quite easily if I am in a foreign country, but cannot learn them in a classroom. I ascribe this to dyslexia. I find that unless a word has a meaning, my brain rejects it. So I can remember that an apple in French is a Pomme, but as to tenses etc, they mean nothing. I have no idea how I managed to pass English Language. I just worked extremely hard at it. Another thing about being dyslexic is the time it takes to do exams. I've yet to do any exam, apart from Maths, where I have finished in time. It seems like I'd start and before I got to the end, the time was up. I find that I have to read questions three times to understand them and make sure that I haven't missed a key point.
The summer of 1978, was all about trying to get the band together. I had a job lined up with North Thames Gas Board, studying gas engineering. This would involve a five year course at Salford College and Manchester UMIST. I would get paid and get a professional qualification. Sadly, as I failed maths O level this fell through. I was devastated. I realised that whatever I wanted to do, I needed a Maths O level. I wasn't welcome back at FCHS, so what to do? My sister had been to Orange Hill Senior High School, so I thought I'd try my luck there.
My parents were amazed when I informed them that I intended to retake my O Levels and do A Levels. They'd always written me off as a thicko. The first part of this was to actually get into the school. I wasn't exactly an acedemic high flyer and Orange Hill had a good reputation. An interview with Mr Culley, the head was set up. He posed a question "Whys should I let you into my school, when you have poor results and a reputation as a troublemaker". I explained that I felt I'd been treated unfairly and must have bored him to death explaining why. I then said that in the summer I'd realised I needed to get O and A levels, so I would be committed to my studies. He announced that he'd "take a chance on me" but the first time I misbehaved, I'd be out of the door.
I found myself in a totally different environment. Wheras FCHS had been a boys school, Orange Hill was mixed. This was like being let out of prison. At Finchley, many of the teachers had seemed as they were simply going through the motions, teaching boys who didn't want to be there, at Orange Hill the teachers were largely friendly and engaging. I took five O levels, and passed them all easily. I found that if I followed a dsiciplined pattern of work, I could do what was needed.
The biggest difference though, was the attitude to music at the school. At FCHS, I'd had run ins with the Teds, who strangely morphed into Skinheads when SHAM69 hit the scene. The Skinheads were the school hardnuts and the punks were the freaks, it wasn't a good side of divide to sit on, if you wanted a peaceful life. At Orange Hill, everyone seemed interested in music and most liked punk and new wave. Even better we had several bands, most notably the Polecats. When I first met Boz Boorer and Phil Bloomberg, who were rockabillys, I thought it would be a troublesome relationship, based on my experiences from FCHS. I realised straight away they both loved punk as much as I did.
The presence of these bands inspired me. Throughought 1979, I started putting a band together. The pattern was the same. Find someone, have a few rehearsals, split up. Then the Poelcats did a demo at a local studio. I found out that it only cost £100. I thought "we can do that". So I announced to the band that we were going to do a demo. The core of the band was myself, Pete Conway and Hank Marvins son Paul. We were madly writing songs and rehearsing. I played guitar, Paul played drums and Pete played bass and vocals. We were rubbish, but it was great fun. We wrote our first classic, "Not All She Seems". It was the story of a Transvestite Prostitute, who is an object of desire for a rich businessman. Like most False Dots songs, it ended badly for all concerned!. Paul Marvin suggested that we needed another guitarist to play lead and Paul Hircombe joined. Paul was 14 at the time. Paul looked like a rock and roll star and was a brilliant musician. He was also someone who loved to live life on the edge. We started to rehearse for a demo, booked it up and just before it was due, Paul Marvin left the band. Alan Warner, guitarist of the Foundations, who owned the studio where we were doing the demo, said his mate Dav, could step in. Dav was from Shrewsbury and was a brilliant drummer. We recorded a three song demo and I think its fair to say everyone was surprised by what emerged. With Paul Hircombe on guitar and Dav on Drums, we actually sounded pretty good.
Then, as ever there was a big argument and Pete Conway quit the band. Paul Hircombe moved to bass and another schoolmate of mine from Orange Hill, Craig Withecombe joined. Craig is a brilliant guitarist. I was determined to do a gig and re record "Not All She Seems" with the new setup. Pete Conway had heard rumours that the band was getting quite good. As he'd co written all of the songs, he rejoined as vocalist. I booked a gig on the 13 December 1980 at the Harwood Hall in Mill Hill. I secured two other local bands who wanted to play and charged a quid to get in. I told the bands they could have £20 each. The place was packed and I made a huge profit. I was by now in the final year of my A Levels. I was doing Maths, Biology and Physics.
I applied for Universities as I felt I should, but in truth wasn't interested in going. I just wanted to play in a band. Craig was a far better musician, but realised the value of studying. I was having problems with Maths. For the first term of A levels, we had an excellent Maths teacher, Mr Rackyleffe, but he resigned and we then had some truly appalling teachers. Recalling Mr Shutlers advice, I decided to deal with the problem. I lead a delegation of Maths A Level students to see the headmaster and insisted they sack one particularly useless teacher. It was agreed that the head of maths would sit in on a lesson, to see if we had a case. This duly happened and the head of maths agreed with us. The bad teacher was sacked. But sadly for me, the years of academic underachievement, fuelled by my dyslexia meant I'd conditioned myself to accept failure. Wheras my peers got parents to arrange private tuition to catch up the two lost terms, I simpy floated along deluding myself that it would be alright. In truth, I was so obsessed with music that I wasn't really that bothered.
Up until the gig at the Harwood Hall, all of the songs were co-written by myself and Pete Conway. As I mentioned earlier, Pete was a natural poet and in my opinion a genius. We'd sit around and fine tune lyrics, so they were powerful and meaningful. The quality of our writing improved. Pete would take events and work them into songs. One girl we knew had a row with her mother and stabbed her mum in the arm with a kitchen knife. One of our early songs was a song called "Bone". Its first verse was originally written by me.
Preachers say I've gotta be good, give me a reason why I should
Having a laugh don't do no harm, so why do they always sound the alarm.
Pete changed to the following
Daddy says I've gotta be good, give me a reason why I should
Having a laugh don't do no harm, so stab your mother in the arm.
Now it clearly isn't a masterpiece, but you have to admit that the Pete Conway version is far more powerful. It is quite strange, because at the time we thought it was hilarious, but people didn't see the humour. When Hank Marvin, who is a committed Jehovas Witness saw some of our lyrics, he forbade Paul from playing with us, which was a major setback.
So our journey that started on June 6th has arrived at Harwood Hall. I'm playing guitar in a half decent band, I've co-written a bunch of songs which I'm pretty proud of. I'm pretty convinced that the Conway/Tichborne songwriting partnership will be the next Lennon/McCartney. We have a band with the worlds best looking and coolest bassplayer in Paul Hircombe. Craig is a brilliant guitarist and Dav is a fantastic drummer. I was convinced that Pete had what it took as a singer to make it. The gig would be the moment when we could step forward and show everyone that we were right and they were wrong. It was our opportunity to silence the doubters. We'd booked up to do another demo and we were on fire. I felt that with six months to go until my A levels, everything was in place. By the time summer hit, we'd be ready to roll.
We turned up at the gig, set up the gear and then started our soundcheck. But just one problem. Pete Conway wasn't there. He was my oldest mate and HE WASNT THERE!!!!! I assumed he was late. Craig was panicing. All his family had come down and it would be embarrasing. I assurred them Pete was on his way. But he wasn't. At around nine O'clock the harsh truth dawned. My best mate had let us all down. So I called the band together and we had a pow wow. Craig was really pissed off. This wasn't what he'd signed up to. I said "Look, it won't be perfect, but we know the songs, we can do it without him". So we divided the songs up. Craig sung half and I sung half of them. As we were playing them, the adrenaling kicked in. We actually started to enjoy ourself. The hall was packed and we got an encore. From the Roundhouse to the Harwood Hall for me had been a very long and very difficult journey. When I'd started it, I was terrified of my own shadow, but when we stepped off the stage at the Harwood Hall, I'd proven to myself that I could cope with anything life threw at me. I'd hidden behind Pete Conway for much of the time with the band, but his no show had forced me to man up. I am not a singer, but we'd got through. We agreed that we'd carry on, Craig would sing for the time being until we could find a proper singer.
All of our mates had said it had been a good night and asked when the next one would be. The local paper had turned up to review it. We got a picture and a write up. In truth my biggest problem had been the fact that my confidence had been destroyed at every turn. I think for many dyslexics, being told you are thick, useless and stupid can destroy you. Yet here I was playing to a packed audience in a rock and roll band. I have issues, I have problems, I am still angry, but on that day, I found myself and I knew that despite all of knocks, I can get up and I can do the things in my life I want. By not turning up, Pete let the band down, but he did me a massive favour. He gave me the opportunity to show that I didn't need to hide behind anyone else. It has been suggested that maybe I should do some motivational speaking to dyslexic teenagers. I am seriously considering it. What would I say? Find what you want and go for it. I would pass on the one lesson I learned at school that really mattered. If something is making you angry, don't lash out, deal with it. It can be hard, but you really can do it
For those of you who haven't read my dyslexia blogs before, here is a little preamble and introduction, so you know who I am and what I do and why I write this stuff. For those of you who know the story, skip to the end of the paragraph for todays installment. Let me give you a bit of Background so you know who I am and what I do. I was born in 1962. I didn't start talking until I was 4 years old (at all, not a single word). My parents thought I was deaf. My reading age at eleven was 5. When I was fifteen I started a rock and roll band called the False Dots, the band is still going strong. When I was 16 I started a business called Mill Hill Music Complex (although then it was simply called the studio), a rehearsal studio, as we had nowhere to rehearse. The business has grown into a very successful enterprise, one of Londons biggest and most well respected independent studios. We now have 16 studios and a music shop and also have a photography/video studio and a dance studio. I also have done IT work, mostly on a freelance basis since 1983. In 2012 I also moved into film production, producing two highly acclaimed documentary films, both of which had screenings at the House of Commons. When I was 31, a friend suggested I had a dyslexia test. To my surprise I was told I was moderately dyslexic. This made me interested in the subject. To my amazement, what I have learned over the years is that my lack of educational aptitude, my feelings of anger and injustice and the core of my personality have been formed by the fact I cannot read words in a linear fashion. In 2013, I have set one of my objectives to use this blog to let dyslexics know they are not alone, to suggest that people who think they may be dyslexic to get an assessment and toget people who have dyslexic children or siblings to understand the issues that they face.
By the way, The False Dots are still playing together. Sadly ater 28 years Paul Hircombe passed away. . The band is still going, me on vocals and guitar, Tom Hammond on Trumpet and vocals, Graham Ramsey on Drums, with Fil Ross stepping in on bass. Here is our latest single!
So in Part One of this series I talked about my experiences at Primary School in the late 1960's and early 1970s as a dyslexic. In part 2, I am discussing the period aged 10 to 14, where I applied for and attended Finchley Catholic High School and before I discovered Punk Rock music. This was in many ways the most miserable time of my life. It all started so well. My elder brother Frank had attended Finchley Grammar School, which had morphed into Finchley Catholic High School four years before I started. My parents were always fairly relaxed about my education. Strangely the teachers had advised them that I'd be far better applying for St James Catholic school as I was too thick for Finchley. Despite now being open to all as a comprehensive (my brother had to sit an exam to get in), it still had a good reputation. The boys who were doing O levels at the time were still the Grammar intake. FCHS was an amalgamation of Finchley Grammar School and Challoner School. Challoner was a private school for well off Catholics who failed the Eleven Plus. More about that later.
Anyway, unlike my elder brother, no exam for me. I just had an interview with the headmaster "Pop" Groves. Now for me this was a big deal. I assumed that if I said the wrong thing, that would be me done for. Anyway, off I went for the interview. Pop Groves was a kindly old Priest, who had dedicated his life to education. He seemed like a friendly chap. He remembered my brother, who had been a bit of a star, gone to University and obtained a degree. He asked me to spell Arctic, which miraculously I managed. He complimented me saying "many boys spell it ARTIC". I said "Do you mean like an articulated lorry?". He was even more impressed. The odd thing about my form of dyslexia is that there are certain words I have never had any trouble with. My brain clearly felt the need to distinguish between the North Pole and juggernauts. With that the interview ended, doubtless with Pop Groves thinking that he'd found another budding rocket scientist (my brother designed bits for Space shuttles for a while). Now as I said, my parents were relaxed as to where I would go. We had a whole load of glossy brochures from local schools. I liked the one for Finchley. The reason was quite simple, they said they did Drum lessons and I fancied being a drummer.
Anyway, on the 4th September 1973, I turned up for my first day. I'd earlier mentioned Challoner School. When the two schools amalgamated, Pop Groves, the kindly head of FCHS had been appointed headmaster. Unfortunately, there was another headmaster to accomodate. The former head of Challoner was Mr Daniel Coughlan (AKA Danny). Now he was most certainly not kindly. He was a complete nutcase. He was what one might refer to as Old School. For him, running a school was about maintaining discipline in a climate of fear. Stories abounded about the beatings he'd dished out to various pupils old and new. He used to address all new parents en mass and talk to them like idiots. My father was not well disposed towards Danny Coughlin. He had a ritual when he caned boys. H'ed put his mortarboard and cape on. Then he'd call in his sidekick, Mr Keough, the deputy head to witness the beating.
He was also the RE teacher. He would simply dictate what he wanted us to write and test us on it the following week. Our form teacher for our form - 1B was Mr O'Connell, a slightly deranged geography teacher, who couldn't deal with our class. He quickly acquired the name "Gimpy". Class 1B soon got the reputation as being full of troublemakers. We were not bullies, we were just a class that had no respect for authority and used every opportunity to try and put one over on the system. Wheras other classes had 3-4 troublemakers, we had 3-4 diligent pupils. For some bizarre reason, for our year and our year alone, FCHS decided to allocate the classes alphabetically. Being predominantly Irish Catholic, this resulted in rather a lot of Mick Walsh's and John Ryans in our class, to our endless amusement and the teachers complete consternation.
The first disappointment on joining was to find out that the drum lessons, the only reason I'd chosen the school were a figment of the brochure writers imagination. There was no such thing. When I drew attention to the fact that this was why I'd chosen the school, the Music teacher sarcastically laughed and said "well thats a bit of a shame, isn't it". I've hated him ever since.
None of the teachers in year 1 seemed the least bit interested in teaching us. Mr O'Donovan, the French teacher, spent the lessons telling tall stories about his wartime exploits in France. As we had no interest in French, we'd encourage him, with the end result that at the end of the year, none of us had learned a single word. Our form teacher, Mr O'Connell hated us and as our geography teacher did everything he could to avoid us. We simply used to bang our desk lids when he came in, in the hope that he'd lose the plot and go out again. One day he really lost the plot and punched Nick Walsh, who was sitting in the front row and not banging his desk, in the face. That was the last we saw of Mr O'Connell, although he taught other classes. We saw it as a victory, although Nick Walsh and his parents probably took a different view.
Then there was Mr Linane. He was the history teacher. Like many of the teachers, he took a great delight in humiliating eleven year old boys. In our first lesson, he read the register and made every boy, in turn, reveal what their middle initial was. Mine was "M" for Martin. Not too bad really. It came to one poor unfortunate, who had "R" as his middle name. Mr Linane asked what it was. "R" replied that he'd rather not say. A wicked glint entered Mr Linane's eye. "Is it Richard?" he asked. No Sir, R Replied. "Is it Roger?", he asked. R replied "No Sir". This continued for a couple of minutes, to no avail. In the end, Mr Linane said "What's the matter with you boy, just tell us, or we'll be here all night". At this, R broke down into tears and blubbed "Sir it's Rupert". At this the rest of us collapsed in laughter. Mr Linane wasn't going to let it rest. He asked "Rupert, are you a poof, why are you crying?" and spent the next five minutes taunting the poor chap. Now, those were different times and in FCHS at the time, there was a very homophobic atmosphere. Despite the fact that R was a nice bloke, this episode tarred him with a reputation that doubtless made his schooling awful. Our class used to mercilessly taunt various members. In R's case, he had his own rather derogatory, homophobic song, which got sung every time he entered the classroom, for the next few years.
What didn't help with the air of antagonism and homophobia, were a few decidedly dodgy teachers. One games teacher, who's name escapes me, used to insist on underpants inspections before we did PE. He informed us that wearing underpants under shorts, whilst doing PE was unhealthy. He'd make us all line up and pull our shorts down, to ensure no underpants were being worn. It didn't take us long to clock on to the fact that this wasn't healthy behaviour.
By the end of year 2, several of the class had left for pastures new (although R stuck it out till the bitter end). They'd just had enough of it, although at the time we all were bemused. Our view was that everyone got stick, so they should just get on with it. We hated the teachers and they hated us. At the start of year 2B, we had a new form teacher. Mr Sweeney was a fearsome character. He'd announce his arrival by throwing his brief case through the door, onto the desk. He let it be known that he wasn't going to take any nonsense. He used to throw blackboard rubbers at us and threaten to punch our lights out. In a fair fight, one on one, he'd always win. However there were 38 boys in class 2b, all of whom were dead set on making his life miserable. We assumed that he was made of sterner stuff, but by the end of the year, he'd had enough and asked for another class. This was becoming a pattern. In year 1, our English Teacher was Miss Walsh, a humourless ex nun. She was replaced in year 2 by Mr Katz. Mr was an American hippy. He believed kids should express themselves and tried to be nice to us. He'd say things like "Hey man, what's with all the negativity". We just ran riot. Sadly, in our class, Mr Katz was not a success. Most of the other classes loved him and realised that if they went along with him, the lessons would be fun and they'd learn. For us, we just wanted to get rid of him. When you are educationally challenged with dyslexia, this doesn't make for a good education.
In class 3b, we yet again had a new form teacher. I have no idea why they inflicted us on the lovely Alison MacFarlane, a pretty redhead of Scottish extraction, who seemed far too nice for us lot. We'd moved to the "Middle School" when she took us on. She was a biology teacher and unlike the previous two, she recognised that there was a bit more to form 3b than troublemaking. The sad thing was that whatever she did to try and bring out the best in us, we'd always let her down. She was never flustered. By this time, I was probably in a state of mild depression. I'd disappear from lessons and go and hide in the bushes. She'd come and seek me out and persuade me to go back to lessons. I guess she'd twigged I was unhappy. I am sure most of the class were in some way.
I just found the stress of continually being ridiculed by teachers to be rather tiresome. There was no real happy medium. They were either sadistic bastards who didn't teach you anything or they were too nice so we ran them ragged. By the end of the third year, the whole class was underperforming. Luckily for us, a degree of redemption was on its way. We made our O level and CSE choices and so for all lessons, apart from RE, PE and Games, we were split up as a group. For most of us, this probably saved our education. I chose science subjects, mainly because I liked the science teachers. I also chose building studies, as it meant a day a week out of school, at an external centre, where you didn't have to wear uniform. Miss MacFarlane taught biology and her eventual husband, Mr Shuttler, who was probably the best teacher I ever had, taught me physics. I didn't realise it at the time, but I am sure she put in a good word for me with him.
By the end of the 4th year, my grades had improved, to the point where O level passes seemed a reality. This was the summer of 1977. Little did I know it, but soon my life was to change. As we broke up for the summer of 1977, I was feeling very lonely and isolated. I had mates at school, but few were really close friends. We were like passengers on a trip, stuck together making the best of it. The only thing I really enjoyed was playing and watching football. I wasn't a good player. I've subsequently learned that dyslexics generally have bad co-ordination. Things such as ball skills and dancing are generally very poor. As I was starting to grow, I did however find that size and weight could to some degree compensate, so I decided I was going to concentrate my efforts on being a defender of the hack em down school of thought. My dad had an old set of dumbells, so I also decided to get fit and strong.
Throughout all of this, no one had noticed how bad my use of English was. No one had picked up on the classic dyslexic traits. I now realise that the troublemaking was a classic defence mechanism. I was so alienated to the school establishment that I wanted to fail, just to escape their clutches. What changed me, was the fact that the few good teachers at FCHS, such as Mr Shuttler, would take time and explain things in a manner that was interesting. All of a sudden, I had a degree of clarity. I can remember him talking to me about English. He asked me why I wasn't interested. I said "Because I find it boring". He replied that surely I enjoyed watching films and listening to rock music. I said "Yeah, but whats that got to do with English". He replied that good songs have good lyrics and good films have good stories. He then said that if I wanted to do well at physics, I'd need to get an English O Level. He asked me if I thought I was too thick to get one. I replied that I thought I could if I tried. He then asked me why I wouldn't want to try? I couldn't answer that question. He asked me if I liked my English teacher. I said "No, actually I can't stand her". He laughed and said "She can't stand you either. Who has won if you fail your English O Level?" From that moment, I had no doubt in my mind I'd pass it, no matter what it took (dyslexic or not). When it came down to it, I realised English language was just about trying to learn the rules.
What was interesting was the fact that I realised he'd not lied about my English teacher hating me. As my grades improved, she became more obnoxious. I guess this was what I needed. I probably worked harder for English than any other subject. I even started reading the books we were set. I'd force myself to read them, and studied hard. I soon found that I could analyse them and answer the questions. Lessons became like a battlefield, but I also found that if you do your homework, you will win. A valuable lesson for blogging. The trouble with being dyslexic in the 1970's was that there was never enough time in exams. I'd always run out. The clock would just tick faster for me than everyone else. I've since found that I read at 2/3rds the speed of someone with a normal brain.I could never figure out how all my class mates would finish and I'd still have 2 questions left, regardless of how well I knew the subject. I've heard people saying that it is unfair on "normal" pupils that dyslexics get extra time. To me exams are testing intelligence, not timekeeping. Did it matter how long it took Alan Turing to break Enigma codes? Of course not.
So as we broke up for that heady summer I was in a strange place. I felt cautiously optimisitic about school. Mr Shuttler had convinced me that I could do OK On a personal level I felt a bit cut adrift. I hadn't got into music. I was always the last pick at football. I hadn't discovered girls properly, but I had deep longings, mostly for mate sisters. Sadly I had zero confidence to do anything about it. At that point the school had done a pretty good job of convincing me I was useless. Why would any girl, let alone a pretty one be that interested. As FCHS was a boys school, the opportunities for girls was not exactly great to start with. Despite the efforts of Mr Wynne, the biology teacher to give us some sensible sex education, I think that we were completely clueless compared to todays 14 year olds. Being a Catholic school, even bringing in a Condom was an act of extreme terrorism. I can remember when there was a spate of people bringing in condoms and blowing them up. Mr Coughlan, head of the lower school, informed us it was a mortal sin to possess one. I was a bit naive and so hadn't got a clue what he was on about. I thought the idea of putting a balloon on your willy to catch sperms was absurd and couldn't imagine anyone doing such a thing. That was the great thing about FCHS. They were telling us all these things and none of us had a clue what they were on about half of the time. By drawing attention to it, they simply made us interested and we found the "real story" from boys with older brothers, who were a bit more worldly wise.
As he sometimes did, my Dad gave me some sensible advice. Over a bacon sandwich, one morning when my Mum and sisters were away, he gave me told me. "If you want to get a girlfriend, get a job. Girls are far more interested if you've got a few quid". So I got a job. In fact I got three. I got a paper round, I got a Saturday job at the butchers and I started washing cars for my Dad at his business. As I didn't really have any hobbies at that time, I opened up a post office account and watched the cash build up. So I was in a bit of a strange place. Improving grades, spare cash and at a loose end. and completely miserable. It could only really spell one thing. Trouble. To Be Continued........
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For those of you who haven't read my dyslexia blogs before, here is a little preamble and introduction, so you know who I am and what I do and why I write this stuff. For those of you who know the story, skip to the end of the paragraph for todays installment. Let me give you a bit of Background so you know who I am and what I do. I was born in 1962. I didn't start talking until I was 4 years old (at all, not a single word). My parents thought I was deaf. My reading age at eleven was 5. When I was fifteen I started a rock and roll band called the False Dots, the band is still going strong. When I was 16 I started a business called Mill Hill Music Complex (although then it was simply called the studio), a rehearsal studio, as we had nowhere to rehearse. The business has grown into a very successful enterprise, one of Londons biggest and most well respected independent studios. We now have 16 studios and a music shop and also have a photography/video studio and a dance studio. I also have done IT work, mostly on a freelance basis since 1983. In 2012 I also moved into film production, producing two highly acclaimed documentary films, both of which had screenings at the House of Commons. When I was 31, a friend suggested I had a dyslexia test. To my surprise I was told I was moderately dyslexic. This made me interested in the subject. To my amazement, what I have learned over the years is that my lack of educational aptitude, my feelings of anger and injustice and the core of my personality have been formed by the fact I cannot read words in a linear fashion. In 2013, I have set one of my objectives to use this blog to let dyslexics know they are not alone, to suggest that people who think they may be dyslexic to get an assessment and toget people who have dyslexic children or siblings to understand the issues that they face.
There is an old saying that your school years are the best years of your life. I often wonder if this was written by a dyslexic, because in my experience and that of many dyslexics the opposite is true. If I divide my life into three bits, before school years, during school years and after school years, I can safely say that during school years was truly horrible, whilst the other two bits have generally been pretty fine. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of great memories from school years, but absolutly none of them are to do with the educational aspects. The good bits generally came at evenings, weekends and holidays.
Now before I start to explain, let me first let you in on three things that conspired to make the challenge even tougher than it may already have been. The first one, you've probably guessed. I'm dyslexic. The second one is that my birthday is at the end of August so I was always the youngest (and often the smallest) boy in the year. The third one, only my close family know about (until now). I was what is called a "Blue Baby". That is totally unrelated to my lifelong support of Manchester City FC. It is related to Rhesus Disease, where there is a clash between your blood type and your mothers. Now whilst this really shouldn't have affected my education, it did in a big way as it meant I was six weeks premature and a rather unhealthy specimen to boot. So whereas I should have been born a Libra, in early October, I ended up on the cups of Leo and an August boy. This meant that I was effectively bumped up a year, with educational special needs.
So there I was. The smallest and stupidest boy in the class. I still have vivid memories of my first day at school. I walked into a huge classroom with hundreds (so it seemed) of kids in it. I was buddied up with Dale Malone, who was my age and lived up my road. He briefly gave me a run down. "He's **** *****, he's good at fighting, he's ****** ********, he's thick, she's **** *******, she smells, he's ***** ******** he's naughty, she's ***** *******, her brother is in Miss O'Donovans class". Whilst most of the class started in September, my mum thoughtfully held my start back until Easter. The good thing about this was I did two terms less schooling than everyone else. The bad thing was that when I joined, not only was I the smallest and the thickest, I also was an outsider as everyone else had their groups of friends. Whilst in theory the Easter start was a good thing, there I was, at school with no friends. This was back in 1967, so we didn't have pre-school. It was a whole new experience and I wasn't in the least bit socialised. Whilst I'm sure that none of my classmates were either, back in December, they had two terms of bonding. So what do you do, if you are the smallest, thickest member of the class and you have no friends. Well I had a simple strategy. I used to hide. I'd recce out the areas of the school, and work out where people wouldn't bother you. quite hard when you were in a large square playground, full of kids. I sort of figured out that the less interaction I had with anyone, teachers, other kids, playground assistants, the better. The rules are simple. Always make for the emptiest part of the playground, always ensure that there is an escape route (don't hide in corners), don't make eye contact with anyone. Don't put your hand up. Look like you are doing work, even if you haven't got a clue. Never ask for help. Never hand in your homework if you can possibly help it. Never say anything, because the less you say, the less chance that you can be ridiculed. That first term was the longest three months of my life. I have one fond memory of it. We made crocodiles out of cotton reels. I was proud of mine. I brought it home and it disappeared within a couple of days. Doubtless my mum threw the ugly object out. My friend Peter Conway, who was a friend until our late teens when we left school, took his home and it had pride of place on their Welsh Dresser until the day I last visited his house around 1981. Mine was simply chucked in the bin after a cursory "thats nice". It was simply a matter of seeing it through.
Our teacher was Sister Rosalie. She was the baby class teacher, a young nun who was nice. My sister warned me that they always have a nice teacher in the Baby Class (what we now call "reception"). But summer beckoned. The summer of 1967 was the longest summer in history, it lasted nearly 36 months and was bliss. My next door neighbours had two boys. One my age (Ricky) and one two years younger (Luke). Ricky had just turned up, Luke was Pre school age. Ricky, like me was an August baby and even smaller than me. We discussed Thunderbirds, we made dens from cardboard boxes. There was never a cloud in the sky. Maybe school had been a horrid nightmare? Then all of a sudden, my mum announced "It's September, you are back at school on Monday". The 947 days of August 1967 had finished.
So I was back at school and it was grim. Gone was the relaxed ambience of Sister Rosalie. We now had Mrs Munich. With the coming of September, the skies turned grey, it started to rain and rained for all 3,741 days of September 1967. However long August had seemed, the bleakness greyness of September was so much longer and more awful. We had to drink milk every day. It was lukewarm and smelly. We ate lunch in the school dinner hall. There'd be some vile reprocessed meat, two balls of watery mash potatoe and a dollop of cabbage, that they could smell in Calais. Lunch was conducted in silence. Sounds bad? I used to quite enjoy lunch, we got to eat a pudding and when it wasn't tapioca or Semolina it was quite nice. Chocolate pudding, with chocolate sauce, arctic role and best of all Rice pud with Jam. As I didn't like talking to people, it was no hardship to be quiet.
What was bad was assembly. This was overseen by Gabsy. Sister Gabriel was the Headmistress. Terry Nation, inventor of the Daleks had modelled them on Sister Gabriel. If we were naughty, there were three options. If you were lucky, you got the bat. If you were unlucky you got to stand up in assembly, go up on the stage with Gabsy and stand their with your hands held high in the air. And if you were really unlucky, you got totally humiliated in front of the whole school. One unlucky pair, a boy and girl were caught playing kiss chase, so had to have akiss in front of the whole school. Just to give you a flavour of the menace of Gabsy, she told us that she'd used to make kids stand with their hands on their heads on the stage, but a visiting nun had pointed out it was far more painful to stand with them in the air. There I was, five years old, being subjected to tortures that writers in the Gaurdian denounce the US government for doing to Gitmo detainees.
As for Mrs Munich. She soon cottoned onto the fact that I was dyslexic. I misspelt train in my Daily news as TRIAN. She called me to the blackboard and made me write it out. I spelled TRIAN. She said "No, the I and the A are the wrong way around. Now write it again", so I did, exactly as I had the first time. I got hit across the knuckles with a ruler. She called me an idiot and then wrote it correctly on the blackboard. They say that Corporal Punishment doesn't work. This is a lie, I never spelled Train wrong again.
Luckily for me, fate dealt me a fortunate hand. My sister had won the Finchley Carnival Queen competition and had secured a modelling contract on the back of it. She went for an audtion for a Tizer commercial. My mum hauled the whole family down. Unbeknown to her, the advert required a family and when they saw us, they just gave us the job on the spot. My career in show business had started. Maybe this saved me. When the advert came out, all of a sudden people were more friendly. My schoolwork didn't pick up, but I had something I was good at.
The downside? The nuns who ran St Vincents decided that I was a bighead, so I never got cast in any school play and every rebuke started with "You are not on telly now Mr Tichborne". The upside was that by now, I couldn't really give a monkeys about what the nuns said. I'd realised that the school was equally horrible to everyone, good, bad, clever and thick alike. So when it came down to it, we all suffered. Being good Catholics, we were all wracked with guilt. Except I wasn't. I sort of realised quite early on that spelling train wrong wasn't bad or evil. I didn't know why I was rubbish at everything (I only realised I was dyslexic in my 30's). I asked a visiting priest if it was possible to commit a sin if you didn't know what you were doing is wrong. This completely stumped him. He asked me to give an example. I said "well my dad says the Pope doesn't like the Dave Allen show. Suppose you put on the telly and it's on but you didn't know the Pope doesn't like Dave Allen?" (at the time I didn't know what the Dave Allen show was, but I'd heard my parents discussing it). The priest said "Does your Dad watch the Dave Allen show?" I replied that I didn't know, as I was always in bed when it was on. At which point he said "You should only watch programs your Mum and Dad say are decent". I realised he'd ducked the question. That was pretty much what St Vincents was like in the 1960's. No matter what you did, you could never win.
To be continued......
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For those of you who haven't read my dyslexia blogs before, here is a little preamble and introduction, so you know who I am and what I do and why I write this stuff. For those of you who know the story, skip to the end of the paragraph for todays installment. Let me give you a bit of Background so you know who I am and what I do. I was born in 1962. I didn't start talking until I was 4 years old (at all, not a single word). My parents thought I was deaf. My reading age at eleven was 5. When I was fifteen I started a rock and roll band called the False Dots, the band is still going strong. When I was 16 I started a business called Mill Hill Music Complex (although then it was simply called the studio), a rehearsal studio, as we had nowhere to rehearse. The business has grown into a very successful enterprise, one of Londons biggest and most well respected independent studios. We now have 16 studios and a music shop and also have a photography/video studio and a dance studio. I also have done IT work, mostly on a freelance basis since 1983. In 2012 I also moved into film production, producing two highly acclaimed documentary films, both of which had screenings at the House of Commons. When I was 31, a friend suggested I had a dyslexia test. To my surprise I was told I was moderately dyslexic. This made me interested in the subject. To my amazement, what I have learned over the years is that my lack of educational aptitude, my feelings of anger and injustice and the core of my personality have been formed by the fact I cannot read words in a linear fashion. In 2013, I have set one of my objectives to use this blog to let dyslexics know they are not alone, to suggest that people who think they may be dyslexic to get an assessment and toget people who have dyslexic children or siblings to understand the issues that they face.
I am British and a Roman Catholic. I can think of nothing else I'd rather be, either as a nationality or for a faith. If push came to shove, I'd like to think I'd put my life on the line for either, although who knows until you are confronted by such a choice, what decisions you would really make. Both work for me rather well. Both are irrelevant to what I have to say next, but I wanted to put that there, so you can read what I have to say, being informed of where I stand.
Being born in a Western, Liberal Democracy is the nearest thing you can get to being born with a winning lottery ticket in life. For me, it means that I got a free education, a nutritious school dinner when I was hungry, free milk at school, a life untouched by war and civil insurrection, free medical care, access to the library, access to pubs, the ability to buy the records that I wanted to buy and the books I wanted to read. Such things, which us people born in Edgware General hospital in 1962 took for granted, are for some people only things to dream of. In fact, even in this country, people born a few years before me or after me will not have access to all of them. I took it all for granted and perhaps, you could say, my generation have squandered it and pulled up the drawbridge behind us. Did it make me smarter? I wish I could say it did, but I think, if anything, it made me a bit lazier than my father's generation. When he was born in 1917, most of those things were not available. His generation fought a war, so that we could have a better life. We stand on the shoulders of those giants. I see so many pages on the web misappropriating the imagery of WWII, claiming that our mollycoddled generation are in some way the same. We are not. It is for each generation to build on the achievements of our forefathers, and I can see very few nations that my generation can claim to have done that in. When we say we have pride in our country, we rarely are referring to our country now. Most people who claim to be "proud patriots" have little pride in our current generation. Not so long ago, the country was ablaze with anti immigrant riots. To my mind, terrorising women and children in hotels is despicable, when I see it compared to my fathers generation facing down Panzer tanks and Fokker Wulf fighters, I feel sick. As far as a I am concerned, you can only consider yourself a patriot if you left the country a better place than you born into. If you have made a difference somewhere, then sure, call yourself a patriot. If you just like the idea of being a British patriot is because your Dads Uncle Tony flew a Boulton Paul Defiant during the Blitz, you are just sad and deluded. JFK once said "Ask what I can do for my country, not what my country can do for me". That was his definition of being a patriot. We've lost our free milk and our free education, they want to take away our free NHS, shut our libraries and tell us what is OK to read and listen to. If you really are a Patriot, those are the things you should care about.
When you kids say "What did you do when they wanted to charge us for education, health, when they shut our libraries and restricted our reading, listening and viewing choices" what will be your answer? If it is "nothing", you can post all the Union Jack emoji's that you like, but you are not a patriot and you have let your country down.
And then we come to religion. Belonging to a religious group can be a life enhancing experience. Many people who have faith give huge amounts of time, money and energy in the cause of making the world a better place. Many lay down their lives for the cause of peace and justice. Some of the best people I've ever met, have made massive contributions to the wellbeing of their fellow man and this was inspired by faith. But it was not 'being religious' that made them good people. It was the fact that they put something back into society. Sadly, for too many in our society, being religious is simply an excuse to pretend they are chosen, they are better or they have wisdom denied to the rest of us. Such people give religion a bad name. Their entitled attitudes and their sense of being the part of a chosen minority, for me, is sickening. I am not directing this at any one faith. All major religions, Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, etc have zealots who think visibly identifying themselves and shouting loudly about their sense of entitlement is enough. They don't have compassion or feeling for their fellow man, the lesser, non chosen ones. I am not a theologian, but I do believe that God will take a very dim view of those that exploit religion for political ends, to the detriment of fellow human beings. I am perfectly happy for people to chose their attire according to their beliefs, their tribe or their musical tastes. I am comfortable with people making diet choices based on medieval texts and holy books. If people want to believe in what I consider to be completely bonkers nonsense, that is fine. Where it is not fine is when such people start feeling and acting as if they are superior to the rest of us. They are not. If God has chosen you and you have faith, all you have been chosen for is to join a particular club with like minded people. If you believe you are enlightened, it is your job to persuade the rest of us that your chosen path is right and that your lifestyle is exemplary do it by making choices that all decent human beings will applaud, not just like minded zealots in your little club. If I look at you and see someone who has something good to bring to Planet Earth, you have my respect. If your religion is simply a tool to wield power and influence that your actions do not deserve, then you are the opposite of what you purport to be. There is a saying that God moves in mysterious ways. As far as I am concerned though, the devil does not. The devil seeks to corrupt by tempting us with power and influence. Perhaps his biggest and best trick is to persuade those who claim to be ultra religious to act like complete dickheads to the rest of us (treat that as a metaphor if you are an atheist).
In short your religion and nationality do not make you smarter, more entitled, chosen or better than any one else. It is your actions and efforts for your fellow man that you should be judged by. I happen to believe that there are too many small minded people, living in echo chambers, populated by other small minded people, reinforcing each other in the stupidity, shouting down the voices of reason. I happen to believe that most are not evil or bad. They have just insulated themselves from information and data that contradicts their viewpoint. It took me a long time to realise that the reason many people hold what I believe to be stupid and idiotic views is not that they are stupid and idiotic. It's just that the only information and data they are exposed to is data that supports their stupidity. Let me explain. For millennia, even the wisest and best educated scientists and astronomers believed the earth to be flat and the centre of the universe. There was no credible data to contradict this, so it was a perfectly reasonable and sensible view. When the likes of Copernicus proposed otherwise, wise people listened to his argument but religious authorities called on him to recant. That is the difference between closed and open minds and it tells you everything you need to know.
My question to you is whether you are on the side of Copernicus and reason or are you on the side of the zealots of the day who persecuted him. I started this by saying I am a Roman Catholic and proud of it. I am not proud of the Catholic zealots in my religion who persecuted Copernicus and whatever religion you belong to, you should not be proud of such zealots in your faith who similarly bring it into disrepute.
Here's a question for you. If you had the choice between being happier, healthier or richer, which would you pick? What if you could pick all three? Sounds great doesn't it? Now usually, when you see something on the internet with such wild claims, you can be pretty sure it is posted by a snake oil salesman, wanting to part you from your cash. I'm not asking for cash, there is no scam here. I am merely sharing this information with you because you have the good taste to read the Barnet Eye blog!
But how can I make such extravagent claims? Am I happy, rich and healthy? Well although many people have the perception that I am a miserable git, I actually have a complete blast most of the time. Like most 62 year olds, life has had its share of challenges, but I wouldn't swap my life for anyones. Am I healthy? Sadly, age has taken its toll. I can no longer play football, due to a life of wear and tear. I have had my prostate removed following a bush with cancer and I've got a list of minor medical issues as long as a Zebra's nose. But apart from the football, none massively interfere with my ability to have fun. And I do work on my health. I thnk I can actually say I am fitter than most men my age.
Am I rich? I'm not in the Elon Musk league, but I have enough money to do all of the things in life that matter to me, so I'd say I am rich enough. If I was the type of person who wanted a Ferrari or a cocaine habit, I'd not consider myself rich, but to me such things are not interesting. I love music, football, food and driunk and I have more than enough to indulge these passions. I've got an OAP pass for the trains and I live in London, so I can't say I miss the Ferrari.
So to sum up, I am happy, I am healthy enough to have fun still and I've got enough cash to do the things I want to do. in life. Yesterday, I was pondering these issues. How did me, a dyslexic with no real talent at anything get to the point where I can make such bold claims? It all dates back to when I was at school. When I was thirteen, I suffered from really bad anxiety. I was actually on medication for it. I didn't realise it at the time, but I think this was partially due to PTSD from watching my mother suffer cancer and the brutal, ravaging effect it had on both her and the family. I felt I was the worst at everything, my mates got better school grades, were better at football, were witty and sharp, better dressed. I was failing at everything and mired in self pity and teenage angst. I am glad I was thirteen then and not now, when we cango online and join suicide pact groups. I don't know if I'd have gone down that route, but it never occurred to me. I do wonder where I'd be if there had been access to such information.
But that was when I was thirteen, by the time I turned fifteen my life had changed completely. I was no longer anxious. In fact, everything had changed. This was not due to medication, medical intervention, counselling or mentoring. It was down to one simple thing, and every good thing I have in life has flowed from that. What was this thing? I discovered a purpose in life, something I wanted to do. If you've followed this blog you will probably know the story, I won't go over it again, but an event happened when I was fourteen. I said to myself "This is what I want to do with my life" and from that moment, everything changed.
So you want to be happier, healthier and richer? Why? My advice to you is to spend five minutes thinking about what really is the most important thing in your life. What is your dream, your ambition, your passion. I speak to a lot of people, who say "I just want to make loads of cash, because then I can do anything". This is a myth. Look at Elon Musk. He is the richest man in the world. However he couldn't persuade Donald Trump to not be Donald Trump! I suspect that the richer you are, the more frustrated you get with what you cannot do. Musk believed that his DOGE team would save the US taxpayer trillions, but he failed. He wants to set up a colony on Mars, but he's so far just managed to get men into near earth orbits, he wants to see us all being driven around in autonomous cars, but sadly it seems that this is a bit too hard even for the worlds best engineers. Now this doesn't mean that in fifteen years time, Musk won't have realised all of them. It just means that even with all the cash in the world, you still need time and a plan, if you have something you want.
But if you had all the cash in the world, what would you do? Just supposed I said "For one day, you can be the richest man in the world, you can spend as much as you like" what would you spend the day doing? There really isn't that much you can do in a day. What about a month? The only rule is that anything you buy you have to give back at the end of the month? Would you go first class on a cruise, or live in a mansion, or buy a Ferrari and hurtle up the M1 getting flashed? Think about it, what would you do?
When I was fourteen, I realised something. We have all been given that ticket, we just don't realise it. Just being alive in this age in a developed, peaceful country, gives us wealth beyond what even a King in the Dark ages could imagine. He couldn't eat strawberries in January, he'd never seen a banana and a chilli. If he wanted to get from London to York, it took days in a rickety stage coach and was uncomfortable even for a King. And even a man as powerful as Henry VIII had problems with his wives.
If you want to be happier, healthier and richer, the answer is actually surprisingly simple. Take a step back and focus.What is the first practical step you can take to acheive your goals. I don't know anyone in the UK who doesn't waste time, money and energy, hand over fist, on things that make them miserable, unhealthy and poorer. Just do a little audit of your life, your spending patterns, your social calendar and possessions. Cancel those subscriptions you don't use. Delete those events in your calendar you don't enjoy. If you are not enjoying work or it isn't delivering the goals you want, make a plan and find a new job. But most of all, decide what you really want. Set yourself a goal. Make it acheiveable. Make it something that will make you happy and fund it with the money from the things you spend money on that don't make you happy. Make the time from the things that you don't enjoy, that you do because you are stuck in a rut. And finally, go out for a walk. Spend time to look at the beautiful things that are all around you, trees, flowers, sunsets, etc.
And me? Yes I thought about this. And there are a couple of things that gave me pause for thought. There are only really two things I could think of, that would make me happier. The first is that I would love to see Boz Scaggs play live. He is only playing in the USA at the moment. The other is that I'd love to get a camper van and tour Europe for a month. So I can't afford to do both right now, so I need to see which is more realiseable and which can be done and when. What cash can be shuffled etc to make it possible? When can I fit it in the diary? How can I persuade my wife that it's a good idea? All of these matters require work on. But if I can do one or both of these, it will make me happy, be good for my mental health and be a sensible use of cash as I will thoroughly enjoy it. Such things inspire me to work hard and earn the cash that pays for them. I've set the goal. Now I have to get a plan to achieve it. I've spent my life organising things in such a manner. If you want something, then organise your life to make it happen. Lets just say for arguments sake, it cost £1,000 to fly to the USA and see Boz Scaggs. That equates to £20 a week for a year. That is four pints a week at most Mill Hill pubs, or five coffees in cafes. How much do I want to see him? So if I knock off an extra day a week in my boozing schedule and go for a walk instead, it will not only pay for the trip, but make me healthier.
Getting healthier is easier when there is a goal at the end. When I played football, I needed no incentive to exercise, but as your life changes, you need new ways to get yourself up and about. You don't need snake oil to be happier, healthier and richer, you just need to spend five minutes thinking about what you want in life, what you are spending your time and money on and whether it is really all being put to the best purpose.
In about an hour I’ll make my way to my studio, collect my guitar and then drive up to The Builders Arms in New Barnet. I’ll spend the rest of the evening playing music in The False Dots, hopefully to a crowded pub full of people.
We play a mash up of Ska Reggae and Punk Rock. If it wasn’t for the fact I need to drive the gear back, I’d also be having a fair few beers. I’ll also be having a chat with a few of my reprobate mates. It would be great to see a few of my blog readers there. Always nice when people turn up. In an idle moment I was wondering what AI should be doing to pass the time, as a 62 year old man. The results made me want to reach for the Bottle of Jack & Shotgun. It seems to me there isn’t too much intelligence in AI! Here what it said >>>>>
A 62-year-old man can enjoy a wide range of hobbies, from active pursuits to more relaxed activities. Some popular choices include gardening, playing a musical instrument, joining a book club, volunteering, or learning a new skill like coding or a language. Physical activities like swimming, walking, or golfing can also be great options. Ultimately, the best hobbies are those that the individual finds enjoyable and fulfilling.
Here's a more detailed breakdown:
Active & Outdoorsy:
Gardening: Tending a garden provides both physical activity and a connection with nature.
Walking/Hiking: Enjoying nature and getting exercise is a great way to stay healthy.
Golfing: A social and relatively low-impact sport that can be enjoyed at any skill level.
Swimming: A great way to stay fit and enjoy the water.
Birdwatching: A relaxing hobby that can be enjoyed in nature and can be paired with photography.
Intellectual & Creative:
Reading & Book Clubs: Stimulates the mind and encourages social interaction.
Learning a new language or musical instrument: Improves cognitive function and provides a sense of accomplishment.
Woodworking or crafting: Provides an opportunity to create something tangible and learn new skills.
Photography: A creative outlet that can be enjoyed outdoors or at home.
Writing: Journaling, creative writing, or blogging can be a fulfilling way to express oneself.
Genealogy: A fascinating hobby that connects you with your family history.
Social & Engaging:
Volunteering: A rewarding way to give back to the community and connect with others.
Joining clubs: Provides opportunities for social interaction and shared interests, such as sports clubs or hobby groups.
Cooking or baking: A fun and practical hobby that can be enjoyed with family and friends.
Travel: Exploring new places and cultures can be a fulfilling way to spend time.
Playing games: Chess, bridge, or other strategy games can keep the mind sharp.
Remember to:
Consider your physical abilities: Choose hobbies that are appropriate for your fitness level.
Explore new interests: Don't be afraid to try something new.
Have fun: The most important thing is to choose hobbies that you enjoy
