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Confessions from a demonic child.

From the word go I’ve always been a bit different and difficult, it’s got me into a lot of trouble but it’s something I really pride myself on now. As a child I had a speech impairment that required specialist help. I rocked up and had to answer loads of questions to test what level I was at. The test commenced and I sat there in purposeful silence for the duration of it. Guess what level I’m at from that motherfucker? The specialist told my mother I was uncooperative and asked if she’d sit in and encourage me. She did. The test commenced once again and I answered every question without my mother’s encouragement  – which was highly amusing for her – I also answered every question correctly. Official diagnosis? That my speech would improve and that I was ‘a character.’ Yup, you bet.

When I was a child I was particularly difficult and misbehaved often. The stories that I’m about to share are all 100% true and are embellished in no way shape or form.  The point of this post? To show that you can be a problem child but still be okay in the end. Throughout my life there have been particular ‘targets’ and groups that have felt my terror (that word sounds ridiculous but it’s apt). These are; the cat, the neighbours, my father and society at large. I’ve always been a rebel.

I think I was so bad because I felt that everyone had turned their back on me, my school was really small and the head master demanded perfect children and I didn’t (and refused) to fit the mould, as result he made my life hell. I was bullied and had few friends. A lot of people died on me by the time I was 10 (I think that is why I’m such a health freak now). My relationship with my father was turbulent to say the least. I was an only child for a while. The only person who had my back and never gave up on me? My mother. So this post is dedicated to her. To her perseverance. To her dedication. To her protection and her early grey hairs, we can laugh about it now.  She wanted 3 children initially but after having me she quickly changed her tune!

These are not excuses for the way I behaved but the melting pot of issues provides good context and a backdrop as to what I’m about to write. I’ll start with the neighbours.

The neighbours

An Irish family moved in next door and initially I liked these guys. But when the boundary wall between the two families properties collapsed, relations deteriorated, to the point where it was threatened that our house would be bombed by the IRA – rational. The family consisted of a mother, father 3 sisters and a brother – Peter, he was a whiney kid, and he was riding around my turf thinking he was boss. I had to show him otherwise. They had a trampoline which was big deal when I was kid, a real big deal because that made you popular, cool, showed wealth, and proved you had a big garden and already they had one up on me. All I had in my garden was a dingy pond. So one day while they were playing on it and being noisy and loud I decided I’d had enough. As well as the said dingy pond we also had a pretty powerful hose pipe – I unravelled that bad boy, got into position and ordered my brother to turn it up full blast (my brother like a saint in comparison to me, was an easily influenced and corruptible one). I hosed the them good and proper. And I did it with a smile. They all ran into their house screaming and slipping. Good.

Another time I saw Peter hanging the washing out – mummy’s boy!. So I made and pile of mud and threw it over the wall, covering him and the washing, when his mother came round to complain I told her he started it. Always have your facts and story worked out prior to starting something, and try to stick as closely to the truth as possible.

Another time Peter was walking past my house – how fucking dare he – with his chummy mates, I shouted out the window at the top of my lungs, ‘Peter wears his sister’s knickers,’ he proper kicked off, started crying and ran off down the road.

They eventually moved away after a few years, then I cast my eye onto the rest of the street… No one was safe.

Anyone that walked past the house received abuse, and I don’t know why. I used to shout in a big posh English accent ‘You there – Halt!’ The person would jump in sheer shock and surprise – why did I do this?! Or another favourite would be to make noises that sounded like I was in pain or suffering from a mental disorder. Why? You tell me.

When I was really little my mother took me round to see the neighbours, the fire was roaring and she sat down to start chatting. The only problem was I’d get really bored when I was round there and boredom = bad bastard. So I picked up this snake, it’s a draft excluder, and the neighbour tells me it’s a family heirloom, by now my mother is looking at me, perspiration has broken out on her forehead and there’s a certain look of fear in her eyes. I smile. Look at the snake and I toss it into the roaring flames. My mother shrieks and dives her hands into the fire to collect it, and kills the patches of fire on it – the family heirloom was a little bit singed in places. Another time round at the same neighbours house it had just been her birthday so my mum and I took a card round. The room is full of cards but I walk up to the only one that had a fake plastic penis on it, boinging it with my finger and ask ‘muuuum whats that.’ The neighbour turned puce. Mum stopped taking me around after that. To be honest you would have thought she’d learnt after the snake incident.

Lucy the cat

This poor bitch bore the brunt of it, towards the end Lucy’s life she’d learnt it was easier to submit to my will then to attempt to resist it. I think a major point of contention that I had with Lucy was that she was pre me. She’d already carved out her territory, her empire before I existed and this simply wouldn’t do. From the first time we met we were doomed to fail. I had just been born, I was home out of the hospital, the nurse was round checking out my willy to see if it worked and that it wasn’t malformed. It wasn’t – points to me! As she was unwrapping the goods I started to urinate over my own head (I’ve tried to do this since but with no avail and with disastrous consequences involving my eyes). The wee stream carried on across the room and hit Lucy and fire, they both hissed, and so began our unsettled and troubled relationship.

I’d often subject Lucy to ‘tricks.’ I’d hang her off door frames to see how long she’d last (her upper body strength was fucking amazing, she skipped her legs days though, I could always catch her when she ran). I remember when we first moved into the house with the dingy pond – you know where this is going – it was full of duckweed and I wasn’t too sure what it was. So I grabbed Lucy and threw her in, she quickly emerged wearing a green cloak and took flight down the garden, her cloak disintegrating as she went. At this point I would like to state that Lucy lived to a ripe old age of 4 – jokes she was 16, so clearly the trials and tribulations that I put her through kept her ticking over.

My Father

For some reason I’ve always had to challenge authority in whatever form, and in regards to my Father, the ultimate figure of authority, it would be an ongoing battle. What I’m about to tell doesn’t always impact on him but it was him that had to pick up the pieces and deal with the aftermath. We lived in rented accommodation and I was chilling in the living room playing, probs with dinosaurs – couldn’t get enough of them – while my mother ironed, she finished and packed it all away and went off to do something else while I was happy playing dinosaurs. Only I wasn’t happy playing dinosaurs, I went over to the cupboard, pulled out the iron, plugged her in and ironed the carpet. It left a monumental burn mark, when the landlord came to inspect the house my father stood in that spot the entire time to ensure we received the deposit.

Another time we were all out in the garden, I was collecting worms and washing them in a bucket of water (you have to wash worms when you catch them, its rude otherwise) and watching them all swirl around. In the meantime Papa was bent over a flower bed exposing a bit of his rear, I quickly grabbed a slimy worm and popped it down there. Lad. Another time in the rented place the only keys to the front door went missing and that combined with living in Liverpool isn’t an ideal situation. My parents – frantic with worry suddenly looked at me, and noted how quiet I was stood next to the drain – yup I’d put the keys down the drain.

My aunt was a special constable in the police force and had all the gear, we all went round to hers and I loved going round because there were different dinosaurs there – fuck yeah! All went well and we left. A few days later my father got a call from my granddad and asked him to ask me where I’d put the handcuff keys. Father asked why? Turns out Aunt was into her kink and handcuffed her boyfriend to the bed and to her horror couldn’t find the key, her next and only port of call was her father. GRIM. None of us can remember how he got out of the kinky cuffs (perhaps she was fucking Houdini?), and I stand by guns and say we simply don’t know for sure if I have a role in the missing keys, but did they check the drains?

The worst of my behaviour was over once my brother was born – it simply became more covert. Needless to say I have calmed down over the years, although I do still have a rebellious and vengeful streak in me – I’m calling it an essential survival skill, so take your judgements elsewhere! This article also demonstrates why I meditate and keep on mediating – if I didn’t I would be a mad(der) bastard.

Have a good day everyone and always use a condom (this blog gives advice on so many different issues, I never envisioned it to be so far reaching).