Shoes What I Remember

The little red wellies that told a big lie, that gave me false confidence, that led me behind a row of shops and up to my waist in a Doctor Foster Special. Boy did I scream, I can still hear myself now. When the grown-ups came running, they rescued me with unsuppressed mirth. Bastard adults. Bastard wellies.

The brown leather sandals with the brogue-style perforated toe and dinky buckles on the side. I couldn't wait to grow out of them. They were a constant reminder that I was just a little boy. I wanted to be a big boy.

'TUF Pathfinders' had animal tracks on the bottom so you could confidently tell your friends and relations that any combination of otter; badger; fox; rabbit; scottish wildcat; duck-billed platypus; had been rooting around in the rockery. The proof was on the shoe. They also had a compass in the heel part of the insole. Presumably, this was to back up my primary compass should something untoward happen to it whilst out orienteering in South London. Throughout this particular craze, the playgrounds of England were full of kids staring into a shoe, standing on one leg and arguing about where North was.

Doctor Marten's. DMs. Mine were ox blood, eight-hole. Every kid had to have a pair by the time they were about twelve. If they didn't they were fair game for a kick in the shins or a boot up the arse. All the bovver boys wore them. The custom was that you'd have to 'christen' a new pair. This meant drawing blood and daubing a cross on the toecap. I wonder how the middle-classes would feel if they knew this, as they walk home from the football on their comfortable 'Airwear' soles carrying hemp shopping bags overflowing with oysters and eels. They'd probably feel pretty cool.

'Jam shoes'. Winkle pickers with a perforated white upper, the rest black; blue; red; brown or green. Side buckle or two hole lace up. Very thin soles and one inch heels. Worn by The Jam and punks all over London. You wore jam shoes with carpenter's trousers, drainpipes or pegs. I'll never forget those shoes. I'm reminded of them every time I look at the manky toenail that replaced the nice one I had to have removed because of pointy Jam shoes.

At fourteen years old I'd graduated onto ten-hole steels. You weren't meant to wear them to school but fuck 'em, I thought. What were they gonna do, send me home? I wore them all the time and enjoyed cracking the toecaps against the kerbstone. It made me feel hard. You could really hurt someone if you gave them a boot with these.

Every Saturday, Mark Perman would come and knock for me at Irby House and we'd cross the footbridge over the railway, then get the 122 and go down to Lewisham precinct to hang out. We'd buy records, muck about with other kids and smoke fags. We smoked Player's No.6, the most popular cigarette in Britain, there was a picture of a packet in The Guinness Book Of Records. When the time was right, we'd saunter over to Halford's at the other end of the High Street where we would nick a can of spray paint. The colour was chosen at random. It'd be whatever you could nick.

Back at Perman's house we'd go out to his back yard, take off our DMs and unlace them. Once we'd placed old newspapers underneath to protect the concrete, our boots would get a couple of coats of fresh paint. Whilst they were drying we'd go inside to watch Mark's dad watching the wrestling on the telly. A Smithfield butcher, he'd twitch and squirm in his chair in time with Jackie Pallow and Mick McManus as they put the screws on each other.

One evening we were bowling down Brockley Road in our newly sprayed bovver boots (they were silver this time), resplendent in our denim jackets with our jeans rolled up to reveal all the lace-holes we noticed four really big Natty Dreads walking towards us. "Oh shit", said Mark.

"They're gonna fuckin' kill us dressed like this", said I.

If we ran we'd be done for, so the only thing to do was to take a deep breath, look straight ahead and walk right through them. As we passed and I held onto my arse we heard one of the Dreads say, "Raas man ,look 'pon 'im boot"!

Narcissus

Well, I still reckon myself alright. I remember when Mum would wash my long, black hair in the kitchen sink and afterwards when it was still wet, looking in the mirror, I would fashion it this way and that. The David Bowie, The Frankenstein, The Dracula, The Lon Chaney, The Hitler hair or maybe a even centre parting. I looked great.

By the time theboysandgirlsandmenandwomen started taking an interest in me I was washing my own hair in the kitchen sink. I had also got myself a bigger mirror. An Edwardian one with a bevelled edge in an oak frame. It hung perfectly on the wall and and was very flattering.

I didn't ask theboysandgirlsandmenandwomen to fancy me. I told them they weren't good enough for me. I showed 'em. They wanted a piece of me. Each and every one of them. Those were the very words. "I want a piece of you". Well, I didn't like the sound of that, so took a piece of them and made it a piece of me. How do you like them apples?

I was reading about Narcissus Complex the other day. Apparently, most dictators suffered from it and a lot of murderers and serial killers, too.

Like Ed Bundy mincing around in his human-skin frock. I wouldn't have done that. Not in that grotty basement, anyway. They say people with NC are underachievers who aren't as good-looking as they think they are, that they've got an exaggerated idea of their own abilities, a sense of entitlement.

It's widely stated that children and teenagers can't be classified as having complexes. They're not fully formed, or something.

They're not all like that you know.

I'm not allowed a mirror in here. It would be detrimental to my health, they reckon. I'm convinced they're just doing it to test me. To see what a clever fellow like me would do to get round it so they can copy me. Then they'll let me out.

There's no water here in my room either, if I want a drink I must call out for one. The service is always dreadfully slow. The toilet arrangements aren't great, there being no water and slopping out is only once a day but I kind of enjoy the smell. Love it, actually. They don't know what they're missing. What I really look forward to though, is when I just need a piss. Then I can fill a basin and stare at my gorgeous face in its warm, golden hues and watch my lips move as they echo my words.

.

My name is Beloved of God, Protector of Men, Son of Smith. I am named after a Jewish king , a Macedonian homosexual warmonger and genius and I make swords for the MacDonalds of The Isles. I am permitted to wear their tartan and the primitive tartan of The Gows. The Gow crest depicts a fierce Scottish Wildcat and is accompanied by the motto: 'Touch not the cat but a glove'. Say no more.

Mum wouldn't go to the nearest bus stop even though it was already a long walk.

"It's cheaper from the next one", she would always say.

"Boing, boing, boing, I'm a bouncing cheque", the boy was singing as he held Mum's hand.

'He better have paid the money in this week". It was a funny voice, like the bad soldiers on the telly.

It was a big new-smell building and the uniform behind the sliding window looked down at the boy, who in turn looked down at his little boy sandals.

"Doesn't he look like his Mummy?" It was not a question.

The boy's face burned cherry red. He didn't want to look like a lady.

"Yes you do. Oh yes you do."

The light came in from the kitchen window and lit up the radio. It sung "Don't Walk Away Reneé" and the boy danced around awkwardly at the top of the stairs. The doorbell went. It played a tune so nice that Mum had to open the front door. As the door opened a red bus drowned out all other sounds for a few seconds. The boy stood behind her and slightly to the side, peeking out. Standing on the doorstep under a side parting was a moustache. It smiled at the boy. "Hello son."

I remember living in a basement flat in Forest Hill. The flat where I burnt paper in the wood-effect wastepaper bin when left on my own. In the corner of the room there was a cage suspended on a stand that housed an ill-tempered, green and yellow budgerigar. Beneath the cage there was a black ceramic cat from which protruded a lampshade with a picture of Venice.

Sometimes my mum would invite neighbours round for coffee.

One time I was left alone with this woman that lived next door. I was swinging my legs between the sofa and the floor. Just before my mum walked back into the room with beverages and bourbon biscuits I had time to ask our guest, "Where's your other face, then?".

"You what?" she said.

"My mum says you've got two." I said.

I am on my way home from a bar in Smithfields and as I swerve between the traffic I remember meeting Sugg's mum on Sunday. Immediately after being introduced to her as "a lovely fellow" I managed to insult her and her friend. They sat there glowering at me through inches of make-up. Now on my way home I find myself haunted by visions of Suggs lurching out of the darkness and plunging a knife repeatedly into my torso. His face is contorted and he spits "cunt" into my face. I wonder why I smoke pot sometimes. It can ruin a pleasant walk home if you give it a chance. I cheer myself up by imagining Matt Lucas sing really bad songs that I've written for him.

Walked a good eight miles today. The Real Slim Davey.