Let the Poor Boy Dream (1989)

 November 1989. 

I was happy.

And it was such a strange feeling. 

I remember sitting in my bedroom on a rainy Autumn evening... I was listening to music and almost laughing because I felt... happy. I just felt happy.

I had loads of homework to do - notes to make for Geography and a whole essay to write about William bloody Wordsworth and his lyrical bloody ballads - but I didn't care. 

I was happy! So that's what it felt like!

It didn't last.

I'd just started my A levels and school was suddenly so much better. No more P.E! No more school tie! 

I had free lessons and I could spend that time in the Art rooms or the Library. The teachers suddenly trusted us to work on our own.

And best of all - the kids who'd made my life so miserable had left school after finishing their GCSE exams. I was no longer being called "fat", "gay" or "spotty" by a horde of bloody idiots. It made such a big difference.

For the first five years of Comprehensive School I'd tried to keep my head down. I didn't put my hand up, didn't answer questions or do anything that would draw attention to me. "Swot" was another popular form of abuse, especially when used as part of a sentence that started with "shut up, you big fat bastard."

My school reports were mostly terrible. But - when it came to Art or Graphics coursework I'd stay up all night to get a project finished. I loved that stuff. I was the same with my English Literature essays - if I liked the book I could churn out a dozen pages just waffling about the characters. But I genuinely struggled with Maths and Science - those subjects made zero sense to me, and the more I tried to focus and concentrate the worse it seemed to get.

In the Summer of 1989 I thought I'd only be going back to school to re-take all the things I'd failed. This was because I believed everything my folks had ever said about me. According to them, I was "bone idle", I didn't "stick in" and I'd "wind up in a dead-end job in a factory". I heard these phrases on an almost daily basis. Did they think they were motivating me? They made me feel like shite. They were just as bad as the kids at school.

Things were made even worse by my brother. He'd been through the same school three years earlier and he'd never had a grade lower than an 'A' (apart from in P.E. - and he took great pride in making no effort in that subject). He was also the first person in the family to go to University. My folks - and a lot of my teachers - would berate me for not being more like him. Apart from Mam's constant whining about him never coming home to see her, my brother going to University was another brilliant thing about 1989. He was no longer around to call me "illiterate" or "a fool" on a daily basis.

In the run up to results day in August I saved up every penny I could and planned to run away from home. To be honest, I only managed to save about twenty quid and my only real plan was to hide at the Odeon in Darlington. What I was going to do once the cinema closed was a mystery.

Nobody was more surprised than me when I got a handful of 'A' grades (English, English Literature, Art and Graphics) and a couple of 'B's. I even got a 'C' in Maths - so I wouldn't even have to re-sit that big horrible bastard of a subject. The only real blot on my copy book was a 'D' for Biology which with hindsight seems quite appropriate.

Nobody at home was very happy. I got a series of bemused, slightly disappointed remarks - "just imagine how much better you could have done if you'd actually put some effort in", "you could have had all 'A' grades if you'd stuck in" and best of all; "you've given us sleepless nights about your exam results. We've been worried sick but you don't seem to care about that!"

For fuck's sake!

I think they'd have been happier if I'd failed everything.

I felt like I was walking on air. I could go to Sixth Form and start my A levels with a clean slate. I did end up going to the cinema - to see Batman for the fifth time that Summer. Mam told me off for wasting money. I could never do anything right. 

A lot of my school mates spent results day pissed out of their heads or went out for a meal with their families but Batman was the extent of my celebrations. I didn't even get any popcorn.

Up until then I'd hated everything about being a teenager. Apart from the bullying (at school and at home) there was also the confusion and non-stop embarrassment of puberty. Everybody was suddenly hairier and taller and I lagged behind in both of those areas. I was ashamed to get changed for P.E. because of my big fat belly and baldy bollocks.

I didn't have anybody to talk to. If I ever said anything to my brother he'd always immediately tell Mam and the whole thing would become a family joke. The same thing would happen at school with my class-mates; 'private conversations' were anything but.

I don't know if it was true of every kid but in my year there seemed to be a weird code about showing interest in the opposite sex. All the lads had to display a 'healthy interest' in girls - otherwise you'd get called a "puff" or a "fairy". We had to confess to "fancying" somebody, even if we didn't really want to. 

I'd stopped playing that particular game in early 1988 because the other kids had teased me so much. They'd also teased Amy Pearse* (the girl I'd admitted to liking) and she'd told me to "just fuck off" in front of everybody at the Youth Club Disco. I never admitted to "fancying" anybody after that. As a result most of my classmates assumed I was gay - but being called a "puff" or a "homma" was better than having a girl telling you to "just fuck off".

The school didn't really help matters. When I was about 14 they introduced something called PSE - Personal and Social Education. For one hour every week the Home Economics Teachers would tell us about personal hygiene ("wipe your bottom from front to back"), relationships ("girls tend to be more emotionally mature than boys") and sex ("people who brag about 'doing it' are usually the most insecure"). The girls would listen attentively, the lads would giggle constantly and I'd sit there blushing and praying for the lesson to be over.

My folks adopted a mocking tone whenever the subject of sex or relationships arose. They'd chuckle about how unlikely it was for me to get a girlfriend, telling me I was the type of boy "only a mother could love - and then only sometimes". 

No girl had ever shown the slightest interest in me. I was tubby, a bit spotty and no matter how often I washed my hair it always looked greasy. Most of the other lads were bragging about their sexual experiences - they were full of stories about snogging, groping and fingering - usually after Friday nights at the Youth Club Disco. 

Were they talking shite or was this stuff actually happening to people my age? Either way, I just came to accept I wasn't part of that world.

So why was I so happy in the Autumn of 1989? Apart from my unexpectedly good exam results and the relative freedom of sixth-form life, I'd also met a wonderful girl. 

Claire* was new to our school - and she was taking two of the same subjects as me. She also took the same route home as me after school. I was too shy to start a conversation but Claire wasn't. At first we talked asked about homework or essay questions but then she made me laugh with sarcastic comments about the Teachers. And sometimes Claire laughed at the things I said! I unexpectedly found myself able to take part in a conversation with a girl! 

I felt a bit giddy, to be honest. Was it really this easy to talk to girls? Why hadn't anybody told me?

Apart from that, Claire and I didn't talk very much at school. She usually sat with the other girls in the Sixth Form Common Room and I certainly wasn't brave enough to speak in front of that many people - but we started acknowledging each other in lessons. Sometimes it was just a nod of the head or a smile but it was great. We even starting pulling faces or rolling our eyes at each other during Geography lessons. We seemed to find a lot of the same people annoying or funny.  

I didn't really like Geography but the field trips were brilliant. The work was usually dull - measuring the speed of rivers with oranges or looking for evidence of glacial erosion on hillsides - but the time spent farting around in Youth Hostels was priceless. We had to make our own meals in the Youth Hostel kitchens and that was always hilarious. Some people would show up with expensive ingredients and spend hours trying to make fancy meals but most of us survived on Pot Noodles, Corn Flakes and toast. And the toast would usually be burnt.

About six weeks into our course, the Geography teachers booked the school mini-buses and took us all to the Lake District for the weekend. The weather was terrible - pissing rain and thick, freezing fog - and we spent most of Saturday struggling up and down various hills. 

I was never very outdoors-y and I didn't have proper hiking boots. I'd bought myself a pair of Gola basketball boots with my birthday money - they were red and white and incredibly comfy,  but they had no grips on them. They weren't designed for the Lake District. I kept falling over. I could only keep on my feet for a few steps and then I'd be sliding or skidding onto my arse.

 I don't know if Claire was also bad at hill-walking or if she felt a bit sorry for me, but we spent most of the day together, right at the back of the group. We both kept falling over and laughing at each other. The Geography teachers weren't amused.

I was usually so clumsy around girls, yet I was somehow able to talk to Claire and she was talking to me - and there were no awkward silences! Was this 'clicking'? Had we 'clicked'? I couldn't let myself think like that. 

The other girls in Sixth Form had known me since we were all eleven. They'd probably heard the stories about my big belly and baldy bollocks and they would definitely know about Amy Pearse telling me to "just fuck off". Claire didn't know any of that stuff. Was that the only reason we were getting on so well?

Later on, back at the Youth Hostel, some of my classmates took the piss. They described Claire and I as "sweet" and a "lovely couple". I blushed like I was in a PSE lesson. My big red face gave me away. Did I "fancy" Claire?  

I was a bit angry with myself. I'd been far too happy and people had noticed. Could Claire see me as a potential boyfriend? Surely not. Why would she? She was new to the school. She was making lots of new friends and I was just one of them. I needed to calm down and I needed to stop blushing every time one of my class mates mentioned Claire's name.

Things did settle down once we were back at school. I was gutted because it was impossible to spend as much time with Claire once the Geography trip was over.

Who could I talk to? If I'd said anything to my folks about girls in 1989 they'd probably still be laughing about it now.

Things drifted on like this for a few weeks. I lived in a strange little bubble.

I couldn't let myself imagine what life might be like if I actually had a girlfriend. I told myself I had a friend who happened to be a girl. This was something completely new. For me, making any new friend was a rare experience so I told myself not expect anything else. 

I'd grown up with some strange ideas. I thought boys and girls only wanted to spend time together in the hope of a romantic connection. But friendship? It seemed unlikely and a bit weird. I was a very immature 16 year old - but I knew I was.

In the end, none of it really mattered. 

One afternoon I was in the Sixth Form Common Room, waiting to see if Claire was ready to walk home.

One of the lads from the upper-sixth had his arms around her.

What? What the hell? 

They were talking softly.

What was going on?

I was really confused.

And then they kissed.

It was a proper, grown-up kiss - the type I'd only really seen on the telly. 

For fuck's sake. 

My heart felt like it was sinking down into my stomach, as heavy and lifeless as a paving slab.

I wanted to get away but my legs were like jelly.

Did I feel light-headed?

Was I dizzy and in a state of mild shock?

Probably.

I found a seat in the library and stared into space for a bit. 

PSE hadn't prepared me for moments like that.

Of course Claire had a boyfriend! 

She was wonderful! 

Did I really think I was the only boy to notice how fantastic she was?

 

Some confident, mature, sporty, clear-skinned young man was obviously going to ask her out. 

And what had I done? I'd made her laugh a couple of times.

I was a bloody idiot. 

I had seen her as more than just a friend no matter how much I'd tried to persuade myself otherwise. And it hurt to see her with a boyfriend. 

Did it hurt more than being told to "just fuck off" at the disco?

Absolutely. I really liked Claire.

Once again I swore to shut myself down - to forget about the slightest possibility of love, romance and all of that stuff. I couldn't talk to anybody, I just had to bottle everything up. It had to be better than getting hurt.

I couldn't let myself be 'happy'. 

'Happy' wasn't for me.

At least until the next time. 

*Names have been changed, natch.