“Linda Maaaaaaary!” yelled my Scouse-Irish-Catholic mother who was an utter hypocrite and hated being known by her full churchy name of Patricia Anne Veronica. Sounded like a bloody nun so of course, me being me, I used to prefix it with Sister – just because it sounded so niiiice next to Patricia. This was assonance and I didn’t know it.
“What are you hiding? I can read you like a book”.
Apparently, everybody always could – except me. I had no idea who I was.
I’m not one of those womb-writers who’s been at it since conception. I haven’t always wanted to write. But this: I’ve always written. And because I always did, everyone else decided that’s what I was going to do. I denied it, of course – and then went and wrote about my desire for people to drop the subject.
Having my father for a dad helped me with my denial. When I was ten, he found an I HATE MY DAD note of mine. This was the start of the YOU-MUSTN’T-WRITE-IT’LL-GET-YOU-INTO-TROUBLE crap. And I believed this horseshittery; my brain of a decade not realising he was just thinking about himself. Didn’t talk to me for a fortnight, either. Rather than employ a little introspection and find out why his daughter detested the shit out of him, he sent me to Coventry – a place I visited far too often. And whilst I was there, I wrote tales of paternal detestation on West Midlands paper.
And I hid the lot. Sometimes, I’d even shred the stuff – once the words were OUT of me, there was no need for me to keep them.
High School was appallingly bad – well, at least the first one was. There, I was bullied for being supposedly too pretty and having Jagger-lips and being too fucking smart. (But surely, if that latter bit had been true then I’d have had a good comeback).
I particularly enjoyed Latin class – but each time I tried to enthuse to my father, all he’d do was have a fucking go at me for my Dave Lister accent. I’m FUCKING SCOUSE, DAD. I’M GONNA OMIT THE T. OK?
Crappy parenting was the bible of my life. Dad in particular would sit and PRAY that nothing would happen to me and my two brothers, without actually doing anything to protect us. Cut to: me, aged 14, getting pissed with scally schoolmates and headbanging to student music on art centre Thursdays.
I dunno – maybe praying worked for the first year, when nothing happened to me during my wannabe-mosher phase. But by 15, Dad’s god must have stopped listening when I was taken advantage of by two lads from the year above. I use that ghastly euphemism because you say “rape” and you say “victim”. I was never a victim. I was pissed. I couldn’t remember it.
Until the day after.
At art class I knew something wasn’t right and it wasn’t just the too-much-Merrydown feeling. So I checked my soft bits, as y’do. Blood. Told the teacher. The teacher told the headmaster.
Me: Bundled into a police car. No shit.
Me: On a living autopsy table. Tweezers pulling out my short and curlies and photos being taken for medical journals. Swabs, evidence bags filled with the clothes I’d been wearing, a bit of prodding, and a lot of whispering.
There’s a shitload of cuts, they said (kind of). So they showed me in a mirror. Fuckshit! They were right. I saw purple bruising on my inner thighs and hold-her-down marks where they’d grabbed my arms.
I started -continued- to remember.
I felt like shit – I’d betrayed my Catholic Parents and their god by way of pre-marital fuckery. Not that I REALLY knew about all that – all I knew was how to fool around. I remember asking my dad at age 9 what a virgin was, only to be told that it was “a man who has not lain down next to a lady.” Wow, dad. Just wow. (At that juncture I freaked out about the fact that my male cousins and I had laid next to each other in a fucking tent the weekend before).
I was a harlot. So I wrote poetry about harlotry.
Dad blamed a particularly sexually adventurous friend of mine, and because I was knocking around with her, I must be the same, right? She’d been there that night, so they called her in to give a statement.
Turns out she’d heard me call for help, when I hadn’t heard myself – but as she’d been busy round the back of the art centre getting some consensual action, she’d presumed I was having the same kind of fun and ignored me.
They called the lads in. They’d heard I was easy because of who I knocked around with. So, seeing me, pissed as a fart, they’d gone for it, kecks down. I guess I was asking for it, huh?
They took my statement as I dictated to WPC Carter. With my upside-down eyes, I watched her write….and I watched her make grammatical error after grammatical error. The only way I could put it right was to come home and write my own version.
Then they called me back. They asked me about my own fooling-around adventures. Made me describe in front of my parents what a blow-job was. They wanted a fucking MIME of it, too. CLEARLY, this would have given the lads just cause to do what they did. If they could prove I’d given some lad a BJ, then those two lads were perfectly within their rights to do what they did. Out of the mouths of the local constabulary: “You LED them on”.
They were clearly right, because I’d been somewhat gothly-dressed. Fishnets, more of a belt than a skirt – totally my fault. ASKING for it.
Dad brought in a tape recording he’d made THAT NIGHT. He’d taped me reading the newspaper, with the intention of playing it back the next day to SHAME me for daring to get pissed. The cops listened. They realised how leathered I was and therefore how non-consensual. But it didn’t matter. The head of the school – according to my mum – was a Freemason and had cop-connections. Didn’t want the scandal on his school. (I’m still unconvinced).
Rape Crisis were about as much use as something that’s no fucking use at all. They persuaded fucked-up and fucked little young me to drop the charges. It was apparently in my best interests because I was Just.Too.Young to cope with THE STAND and being cross-questioned.
So the two lads walked. (One of them also walked into a knife a year or so later in an entirely unrelated park incident).
I knew they’d never see it, but I wrote to them nonetheless:
That which lives inside is this: recoiling, recalling. Falling.
When did you decide to decide my fate with your parasitic tryst?
You gave them a brush to tar me with so that I’d be blamed for what you did.
I don’t want revenge. I want nothing but love in your life
So you can REALLY SEE
How your bit of fun affected me
I wish you nothing and I wish you ALL;
PAIN? I don’t, but ought to.
The only way I know for best revenge?
For revenge – I wish you DAUGHTERS.
I was kept off school for about six weeks, during which time the bullying continued – this time, at my house. We were pelted with stones and eggs and there was a brick through the window. All this for my blowing of the whistle.
SLAG and SLUT were other things that I was, apparently. Eventually, I went all Tyler Durden on the cock of the school – and punched her fucking gobshite face in. Not all of the blood on my shirt was mine. But that, too, was my fault. And why? Well, according to the father, despite the fact that (until now) I’d not gone all the way with a lad, I was a nymphomaniac. Right. Thanks again, Dad.
The bullying got too much for my parents, and I couldn’t keep on making people’s faces bleed. So I moved across the water from Liverpool. Started a new school. And because I was half way through my exams, I chose to stay back a year because they couldn’t match my subjects up. My new school didn’t DO my language of choice so I wrote a Latin letter of complaint to the council (as best you can do with a dead language), which was my own crappy way of trying to keep it alive.
There was a bit of hushery amongst my classmates…why is she older than us? Why is she here? Is she that STUPID that she has to stay back? And when an entirely new set of bullies realised I was actually a libraryload smarter than them, that just coaled their fire. Dad made it clear that I wasn’t allowed to actually come out and SAY what had happened to put me there, because that’s purely SHAMEFUL.
But paper actually put out the flames. Books fanned me into existence.
I found Shakespeare. I was nurtured by an incredible English Lit teacher who just KNEW what made me tick in beats of five-by-two. I read Chaucer without having to have it translated for me – I’d found my own rhythm. FINALLY: people who spoke my language – no matter what version.
But there was a problem. I was a straight-A student. This confused the shit out of me – being equally good at everything meant I didn’t excel at anything. So when it came to University, it didn’t come to University. I didn’t go. I had no fucking idea what I wanted to do. Critiquing the crap out of Orwell wasn’t gonna get me a day job. So I went home and wrote science-fiction stories whilst applying for interviews in any fucking field going.
Forensics and I had a brief dalliance simply because I fucking love science. (Pretty sure this had something to do with the living autopsy I’d had at age 15). I could HELP PEOPLE, I thought. But life in the bacti-lab was no fun, and aside from a guy’s thumb – kept pickled in the fridge – I never actually got to see anything dead. YAWN. Wrote a horror short about the experience, entitled RIGID DIGIT, but no…I wasn’t a writer. I refused to be a writer.
I dabbled in journalism at Radio City and qualified in the subject whilst I was there. Did a bit of vox-popping and radio production, a touch of tape-splicing, and a thumbful of twiddling. Whilst I do have a great face for radio, its audio-visage wasn’t appealing to me so I fell into critique. Ended up working for a shall-remain-nameless rag. Told it like it was. Was asked to tailor my style to that of their own house: arse-kissery for the sole purpose of brown-nosing important people. Sorry – but if a play blows, I’ll supply even more fucking air to propel its little house down.
Was asked (again) to write (a lot) less like me and instead use someone else’s voice. So I resigned; I couldn’t be mortar to a house whose unimaginative bricks had already fallen.
Didn’t stop reviewing, though. Loved it. Daily trips to the flicks (it was cheap back then) resulted in wonderful rants. But friends kept telling me to write my own stuff. I can’t, I’d say. I have no imagination, I’d say. I’d rather just get a movie and perform an autopsy on it, I’d say. Get it on my little wordy slab and explain its anatomy. Describing why a film is so utterly fucking watchable (or turnoffable) was the only thing I was good at. Worshipped Barry Norman and watched (almost) every film that had ever been made.
Spat my dummy out. Again. Read a bit more Orwell. Ate a bit more Shakespeare. Headached through A Brief History of Time. Wrote some stories. Poed some poems. Drank in JB Priestley after he’d drunk Jung……and then went and wrote a 15,000 word ‘essay’ about my own little time theories.
And then…..after receiving my review for his spec script, a super-bad badass screenwriter told me I was a better writer than he’d ever be. And – holy fuckballs: I believed him. And I believed in myself for the first time. I went home, dug out the unshredded, and read. I then proceeded to desk-bang my head to knock out the stupid. It worked.
So I started writing….and offers started coming. Publishment, Screenwords….all of it. After decades of denial, I finally accepted that this part of me should be allowed out. And now she’s out, I’m happy to blow her trumpet. What’s WITH that weird social stigma that you can’t admit the awesomeness of your own stuff? Why shouldn’t we celebrate ourselves? In my case, nobody else’s gonna do it for me, so fuck it!
So – why do I write? In a nutshell, it’s simple: I was asking for it.