A Brainless Tongue And A Jumping Squib

                

                 

 My maternal grandfather lived with my maternal grandmother, my parents and me   in the house where I was born, in South London. Fortunately for us we all  – my maternal grandfather, my maternal grandmother, my parents and me – moved to a small semi shortly before German bombs razed our old area, leaving, in grand Teutonic gesture, only the local Cop-shop and the “Beehive” Pub standing like law abiding, but boozing bookends beside the heaps of rubble.
My maternal grandfather drove a London double-decker bus, smoked a pipe, wore cardies, executed eccentric tap-dances, gardened brilliantly (his little back garden in Carter Street won a silver cup) sang Cockney songs, and called me “Jormeded”.
As a child I never considered the etymology (which child would?) just accepted the fact that he used the handle: “I’m going to the allotment, ol’ Jormeded, wanter come?” or “Fancy a game of Pontoon, Jormeded?”  It wasn’t until I was grown-up (or as grown-up as I’m ever likely to be) that, recalling his affectionate nickname for me, considered its meaning, and realised it wasn’t, as I’d always imagined, one word: “Jormeded”  but three whole words: “Jaw me dead”  (“talk me to death.”)
There’s no denying I was, from an early age, an incurable chatterbox –okay, okay, already, I know…….!  I once overheard me Uncle Albert saying to my parents: “He could talk the hind-leg off a donkey, never stops nattering, and arguing; for gord’ssake send him to Law School.”
Being a bit garrulous is okay, nothing wrong with that; though it can prove irksome for others, especially when one is trying hard to slip in sideways a word of one’s own. I’ve got/had several extremely loquacious chinas, but dunno whether (never having asked) they happen to suffer from the same trouble as me…….
…….Normally the brain is team captain, giving orders to assorted organs, nerves, sinews…wotever; for example: Brain to right-hand fingers: “Grip the ball for an inswinger,” brain to legs: “Run in smoothly,” brain to body: “Bowl an inswinging  yorker,” brain to tongue:” Appeal loudly for LBW.”  And therein lies the rub, all that  brain to tongue moody don’t function with me. My tongue works, not only independently of me brain, but faster; much, much faster, shooting words from me cake’ole before the old head–filler has had time to consider the consequences. This has, on a few occasions (thankfully, very few, and long ago) resulted in my only recourse being to the Noble Art of Self Defence; usually my speeding tongue has repaired the, often unintentional, damage before the no–way–back line was crossed.
On stage it happens constantly, I’m perpetually surprising myself. Before I’m aware of it, me tongue is telling the audience about a song I intend singing; and me brain is going: “Shut up you fucking idiot, you haven’t sung that for 30years!” but tongue rattles on, ignoring brain’s commands, dragging me deeper and deeper into dodgy territory until the moment arrives when I haveter put me money where me mouth is; fortunately this is the moment when brain leaps into the saddle, grabs the reins, guides me through the changes; ensuring chops fit, words sit, until, some minutes later, I hit the final chord, having managed to sing and play the rotten song without a mistake…well, without many mistakes (see my posting of 19.08.08: “Getting Away With It” ). Having conquered thoughtless darting tonguery, brain remains in charge of the gig until summat unexpected happens:someone has a coughing fit, some daft idiot’s handy rings, somebody drops a glass, something distracts me,for whatever reason, and the swiftness of the tongue outruns the brain.
Shirl and I were singing in a London club, I started to introduce the next song, when a bloke in about the twelfth or fourteenth row starts getting out of his seat. “Oi! ” shouts tongue, “sit down when I’m talking.” But the bloke continues to get up… and up… and up…and– blimey, he’s only about 6 foot four inches tall in’t he? and built like a brick shithouse. “You’ve done it now, you great oaf,” says frightened brain, “you’ve dropped us in it.”  Heart pounding, I prepare to receive a right royal clobbering, when the giant says, in a gentle, ‘Obson’s. “I’m sorry, Colin, I really, really am; but if I don’t go now, I’ll miss my last bus.”
Whilst brain, body, and imprudent tongue return from the cusp of disaster, the big bloke goes to the door, turns, raises his huge paw in a farewell gesture: “I’m really, really sorry.” 
“That’s alright, cock,” I reply good-naturedly (heartbeat almost back to normal)          “don’t worry about it, we understand. Hop off and getcher bus.”

For non-Brits, unaware of the significance once accorded the 5th November, with its  traditional fireworks, street parties, bonfires, effigies, tar-barrel rolling etc, celebrated in England since 1606, I recommend, for a simple explanation of the events of 1605 – which led to the annual festivities:
http://www.historylearningsite.co.uk/gunpowder_plot_of_1605.htm
more detailed: http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/STUgunpowderP.htm
and/or: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guy_Fawkes_Night
Years ago the fifth of November was the sole occasion for fireworks (it’s only fairly recently that Brits have started setting ‘em off on New Year’s Eve). Late evening, into the night and early morning, bonfires lit a sky filled with bursts of pyrotechnical stars. Our parents liked the pretty Catherine wheels, Roman candles, Bengal fire gear, but us kids preferred the noisemakers: squibs, bangers, the marvellous jumping crackers (withdrawn from public sale in 1972 –demonstrating just how marvellous they were!) and screaming, exploding rockets. To buy them, we saved our paper-round money, and “Penny for the guy” tips.
                         “Please to remember the fifth of November,
                           Gunpowder treason and plot…”
One morning, a few days before the designated celebration which, as this year, fell at the weekend, I put a jumping cracker into the pocket of me jacket before leaving for school.
When the bell rang, we left the quad in a hustling, blazered horde, shoving into the Big Hall for dailybloodyassembly. After the predictable opening blah, the tall, begowned, unpredictable headmaster, a not highly popular person – known to us by the soubriquet of “Chutney Bill” or “Chut” – walked centre stage, tipped his head and began excavating his ear with the little finger of one hand (no idea what he hoped to discover, but he was always at it). Having given his lug’ole a good going over, he intoned news of school happenings: the dramatic society, the chess club; what the Scouts, the Army and Air Force Cadets (organisations which I conscientiously avoided) had achieved blah…blah…blah. Finally reminding us that Guy Fawkes Day would soon be upon us, and that, during the past years, some of the less responsibly minded had brought fireworks to school, setting them off in the quad during break – not only noisy, but potentially dangerous. This year, he said firmly, the setting off of fireworks in the quadrangle was strictly forbidden, it was unwanted, unwarranted behavior. He stressed the point: No fireworks were to be let off in the quad!
Before brain had a chance to consider the outcome, tongue (loud enough for all within range to hear) said:  “I’ll haveter let it off in the form-room then.” Heads turned in my direction, oh yeah, big–mouth, betcher don’t, writ large upon their faces. “Here’s another fine mess you’ve got us into,” groaned brain, echoing the great Oliver Hardy, “what’ll we do now?”
There was, naturally, only one thing that could be done…….

The morning half over, I’d become the object of increasing numbers of scornful, sneering looks, even from my closest friends, everyone convinced I’d bottled out. The bell rang for the next period, which happened to be with our form master; while we waited for his arrival my mate, Rod, whose desk was in front of mine said: “Tell you what, Col, tap me when you’re ready to set the firework off, and I’ll lean to one side so’s you’re hidden from his view.”
“Oh thanks so much,” I croaked, inwardly cursing him, but above all damning my recalcitrant main organ of speech, wishing I was somewhere else far, far away, some weird, foreign, place like Mars, Saturn or Croydon.
Time drifted by, contemptuous looks drifted my way, my credibility drifted rapidly gutterwards. To be honest, I was scared of what authority would do should I set the cracker off, but even more scared of me chinas’ reaction should I fail to do so. I was trapped with one foot on the boat, the other on the riverbank. The teacher rose, and with his back toward us began to write on the blackboard. To paraphrase Schroeder and Gold “It was now or never…” I lit the blue touch paper, and when it fizzed, slung the squib across the room; it landed at the foot of the school’s right back who kicked it as if clearing his penalty area; it skidded along the floor, stopped beside the form master’s desk; exploded and jumped. It banged and jumped maybe six or seven times, the din magnified in the enclosed room, the smoky smell of saltpeter filling the air, it was like being one of Nelson’s bleeding powder monkeys at Trafalgar.
The startled form–master spun round, snapped: “Wilkie, go to the headmaster’s study.” He didn’t even ask who the culprit was, simply assumed it was me, and my seditious standing amongst my peers (elevated due to the jumping cracker) soared: bringing a bounty of Brownie points, and a gold star on the wall.
I went out, had it off to the top–quad bogs, loitered there till I reckoned sufficient time had elapsed, returned to the form room, assumed a suitably dejected mien: shoulders sloping forwards, hang–dog facial expression (had he been around at the time, Gus Fraser would’ve been double–jealous)  and went in. Our form master (who must have been fey) said: “Visiting the toilets in the upper-quad to smoke a cigarette, Wilkie, is not what I told you to do. This time I shall accompany you to the headmaster’s study.” He gestured to the others: “Keep quiet while I’m away, we’ve had enough commotion in this room for one day.”

Stoney-faced, the head heard our form master relate the story, then said:  “Thank you, you can leave me to deal with this.”
Once we were alone, he furiously read me the riot act, listed previous misdemeanours, finished by saying: “In assembly this morning I specifically stated no-one was to set off fireworks in the quadrangle.”
“I didn’t, sir, it was in the form–room,” (under the circumstances a very stupid,
remark to make, bloody smart–arsed, brainless tongue once more!)
He glowered at me, continued his tirade, and when it ended, said: “I cannot allow you to evade punishment for this escapade, it is highly regrettable but I have no alternative… I shall expel you!”
“But, sir……”
“No buts, Wilkie, this time you’ve gone too far. You willfully disobeyed my orders, and must be disciplined. I will write to your parents explaining why I feel compelled to expel you.”
Expel! The word hit me like a Joe Louis left–hook. I’m only going to be fucking expelled!  How on earth was I to explain that to my parents ?
My dad, I knew, would say in his customary calm, collected way: “I think we’d better have a cup of tea, son, and discuss what we intend to do about this.”
My mum, however, to whom the words “calm” and “collected” were complete strangers, would unquestionably throw a brace of purple–spotted fits. For reasons I was never able to fathom, my mother regarded “school” with remarkable reverence, in her eyes ‘twas a hallowed institution. She was a wonderful, loving, generous woman, but one who, in stressful situations, could become a right drama queen, and my expulsion would, I knew, completely destroy her world and its illusions. Once, several years ago, I’d arrived home and innocently remarked: “Sorry I’m late, Mum, I got detention.”
She blanched, reeled as if struck, covered her face with her hands, cried: “Oh my god, what have you done?”  Rocking in absolute despair and dismay, weeping wretchedly, she repeated over and over:  “Oh my god, oh my god, what have you done?”  Her reaction could hardly have been more melodramatic had I’d said: “Sorry I’m late, Mum, I was ravishing the caretaker’s daughter.”
That was, naturally, the last time I ever informed her of any trouble at school, she never heard about the canings, the writing of lines, the impots, and when I copped detention I’d arrive home and say: “Sorry I’m late, Mum, had to stay behind to assist the teachers.” She thought that was wonderful, her son helping the staff, and it really was only a tiny weenie white porkie wasn’t it? I had been helping the sods hadn’t I? helping ‘em work out their annoyance by keeping me behind, making me stand in a corner, write a hundred lines, or whatever other teacherly idiocy the buggers considered suitable punishment. Gord only knew what reaction the getting expelled jazz would cause, I dared not think about it, my heart froze, dislodged itself from its usual spot in me chest, and, fluttering wildly, sank into me left heel. Making my mother unhappy was not high on my list of priorities, and I was aware that this news would set her nerves jangling, her life was going to be miserable for a long time – and, consequently, mine along with it.
The headmaster waved his hand in dismissal. I commenced a heavy–legged walk across the room, but as I reached for the doorknob his voice thundered: “Wilkie. Come back here.”
I went back there.
He scowled at me, then gestured toward my jacket which, instead of being the usual school uniform blazer: dark blue with our school crest upon its breast pocket, had very distinctive braiding on the sleeves, edges and collar, signifying the wearer had won his full colours for sport, thereby distinguishing him from the “ordinary” pupil (in a school of about 700 boys, only around 20 or so of us were entitled to wear these blazers) and asked: “Did you intend playing cricket for the School1st XI next year, Wilkie?”
“Oh yes, sir. I wanted to, I was….”
He held up a silencing hand: “In that case I shall not expel you.”
Relief encompassed me, my icy jam-tart rose from me left heel flying back to its designated abode. I  could’ve kissed the old fucker’s feet.
“However you will not escape retribution. I shall give you a thorough thrashing.”
He went to a long cupboard in a corner, selected a suitably whippy withy, ordered: “Bend over.”
When he finished lacing into me, my arse was afire, as if I’d stuck it in a nest of especially vindictive red ants. But from the moment the first stroke landed, till the ordeal was over, I didn’t give the bastard the pleasure of hearing the slightest sound of pain; just clenched me teeth, braced myself, and took the beating.
Seconds before I left the head’s study, the period bell rang, so I walked out into a hall beginning to mill with boys changing form rooms; hurrying to science labs, the art room, the gym; or returning from a science lab, the art room or gym, They looked at me, most of ‘em started grinning, a few gave me the thumb’s up, one or two of the older lads even patted my shoulder in passing. It took a tick or two, then I realised what it was…….they knew, they all knew, the entire school knew about my jumping cracker exploit and were, ov kosst, delighted.  I was fully aware that by Monday it would probably be forgotten, would be history, but for this glorious moment, in their estimation, I was up there with Huck Finn,Tom Brown, and Rob Roy MacGregor.  I straightened my shoulders, strode jauntily (or as jauntily as one whose Khyber has been severely caned could stride) through their admiration.

Reaching our form room, I pushed open the door, and walked in. The English teacher, a popular little man called Drake – nicknamed, unsurprisingly, “Quacker “  was leaning against the window ledge; as I entered he smiled:
“Ah, Wilkie,” he said, “I assume you’d prefer to do this lesson standing up?”