Once The Comedy of Errors had finished, I spent the summer of 1992 doing three things:
1) Playing (and losing) lots of cricket matches for Falmouth Under-16 team.
2) Acting as scorer for Falmouth Cricket Club’s Second XI
3) Waiting for my GCSE results.
I wasn’t feeling optimistic about the GCSEs. I’d failed all of my mocks the previous November, so was feeling under pressure when the time came to do the real thing. My goal was to get at least 4 GCSEs so that I could study English Literature, Drama and potentially a language for A-Level, but it seemed a forlorn hope as I found myself variously failing to finish one of the French papers within the time limit; sitting in utter befuddlement at some of the maths questions and reaching a nadir when I struggled through a question in a geography exam only to move on to the next question, which showed a picture of a field next to a small river and setting a task to write 500 words on why the site would be suitable for a power station to be built on it. I just gazed at it for a few minutes before thinking to myself, “This is the fucking pits!” and then writing something which even while I was doing it had me thinking, “This is bullshit. I haven’t got a clue and they’ll know as soon as they start reading this.” I felt terrible. All that time spent at school, willing myself to be able to be at home reading comics, watching videos, playing with friends etc. If only I’d dedicated myself to doing 1 or 2 hours extracurricular study at home each week, but I lacked application, willpower or the ability to see the bigger picture, and now I feared that it was going to come home to roost with my GCSE results. My parents had been very angry after the mock results and in a fit of bravado I’d dared them that I would do better come the summer, but my mind kept projecting the phrase, “We’re not angry, we’re just disappointed”. Neither of my parents had much in the way of formal qualifications - my father had gone into the navy when he was 15, while my mother’s school qualifications were gained in Ireland. I had a lot resting on my shoulders with my father particularly desperate for me to get qualifications as he was desperate for me not to work in something like the building trade as he did, and which I would have been singularly incapable of doing anyway.
The summer ticked down to results day, which I think fell either on 20 or 27 August 1992. I walked down to the school to get my results with good wishes from my parents and a determination to learn whatever lessons I needed to from the results. In the event, they were a perfect encapsulation of what
my life has often felt like. Not a triumph, not really a success, but respectable enough and a lot
better than I feared. I passed in 3 subjects - one more than Rodney Trotter at least - so I had rescued something from the disaster of my mocks, but I didn’t have enough GCSEs to qualify for A-Levels, and I couldn’t do retakes either because I only had one Grade D and that was in the optional subject of Latin. Had I got it in Maths, History, Geography or Science, I could have tried for retakes in November. Mr. Trueman, the school’s exam officer had a chat with me and after hearing that I’d have studied drama if I could have done, he suggested I contact David Gregg at Cornwall College and do the BTEC Diploma in Performing Arts, which would be equivalent to 2 A-Levels. I met David the following day at Cornwall College’s Maritime Campus in Falmouth and was offered a place on the course which would run over 2 years and started on 7 September. 1 day a week would be spent at Falmouth School working with drama and music teachers I’d known from Oliver! and The Comedy of Errors but the other sessions would take place at various venues throughout Falmouth. I had to all intents and purposes, left school and new adventures awaited!
my life has often felt like. Not a triumph, not really a success, but respectable enough and a lot
better than I feared. I passed in 3 subjects - one more than Rodney Trotter at least - so I had rescued something from the disaster of my mocks, but I didn’t have enough GCSEs to qualify for A-Levels, and I couldn’t do retakes either because I only had one Grade D and that was in the optional subject of Latin. Had I got it in Maths, History, Geography or Science, I could have tried for retakes in November. Mr. Trueman, the school’s exam officer had a chat with me and after hearing that I’d have studied drama if I could have done, he suggested I contact David Gregg at Cornwall College and do the BTEC Diploma in Performing Arts, which would be equivalent to 2 A-Levels. I met David the following day at Cornwall College’s Maritime Campus in Falmouth and was offered a place on the course which would run over 2 years and started on 7 September. 1 day a week would be spent at Falmouth School working with drama and music teachers I’d known from Oliver! and The Comedy of Errors but the other sessions would take place at various venues throughout Falmouth. I had to all intents and purposes, left school and new adventures awaited!
Boosted by my partial success with the GCSEs, I had phoned one of the girls I had been in The Comedy of Errors with and asked her on a date (click on the Comedy of Errors link above to get
more background on what had attracted me to H). To my delight, she agreed to go out for an evening with me and we agreed to meet up on Bank Holiday Monday, 31 August. I spent the weekend in a thrilled state of anticipation but was stuck about what to do and where to take her. I hadn’t started going in pubs yet and I wanted to do something with the evening rather than just walk around - and walk is what we would be doing as I hadn’t yet learned to drive. Eventually, I decided that I would take her to the cinema. The only problem was that Falmouth was, at that time, still in the early stages of a 22 year wait for a mainstream cinema to reopen in the town. I didn’t want to spend time waiting for a bus to go to Truro or Redruth in order to see Lethal Weapon 3 or Alien 3 (which I would have been too chicken to see back then given that I was still afraid of horror films at the time), so I
resolved to take her to Falmouth Arts Centre to see The Mambo Kings, because what 17 year old
Cornish woman could possibly resist the enticing prospect of an evening watching a film about Latin
music? Well, evidently this one could, because when I popped down to WH Smith, where she worked, on Bank Holiday morning to check that we were still on for the evening, she looked very worried upon seeing me and apologised to say that, unfortunately, she couldn’t make it, but maybe some other time. I walked out of WH Smith’s knowing that there would be no other time, judging from her body language, but I was confused as to why the sudden change of mind and attitude. I hadn’t even mentioned the words “Mambo Kings”, indeed I hadn’t even spoken to her since the previous Thursday when she had enthusiastically accepted my invitation to meet up on the Monday.
I got my answer a few weeks later when I saw her out in the street holding hands with another boy. Shortly after that, I told a friend of mine, who knew her, about the whole curious business and he came up with an explanation that was either a remarkable piece of reverse serendipity or he was a genius liar trying to spare my feelings. According to my friend, H and the boy I had seen her with had been going out together for two years. Over the Bank Holiday weekend, between my call and our proposed date, my friend had seen H at a party held by The Young Generation in the aftermath of their production of Charlie Girl. H and her boyfriend had both been in the show, but only H had attended the party. She told my friend that she had split up with her boyfriend earlier that week after a row, but was regretting it and worried that he wouldn’t want to take her back. My friend, not knowing that I had asked her on the date, advised her to talk to her boyfriend and the rest was history. If the story is true, I’m glad I didn’t call the week before only to be told, “Um, I’m going out with someone” and have to laugh my own offer off.
Whenever I saw her at Smith’s after that, she was always courteous but detached. My mate, Ben, was convinced she fancied him, often telling me about warm smiles and long looks she’d given him whenever he shopped there. He was a bastard that way, like most teenaged mates are.
So instead of a nervy evening wondering how well things were going with H. while Antonio
Banderas and Armand Assante were battling the Cuban Mafia between mambos, I spent Bank
Holiday evening watching BBC 2’s TV Hell theme night; an evening “celebrating” the worst of
British television. The content ranged from the notorious (Bill Grundy’s sweary teatime interview
with the Sex Pistols), the daft (some of the eccentrics who turned up on Nationwide - bagpipe playing parachutists, people who claimed they could jump on eggs without breaking them etc), the pompous (BBC drama follies like Churchill’s People and The Borgias), the tacky (North Sea ferry set soap opera, Triangle opening with, in the words of Stuart Maconie, “Kate O’Mara sunbathing topless under a sky of pure lead.”), the dull (1982 Saturday night talkshow, Sin on Saturday, which used the Seven Deadly Sins as its theme but failed to excite audiences and was cancelled before the end of its run despite the efforts of Oliver Reed to enliven proceedings), the disturbing (I had unsettled sleep on the night of August 31 after catching sight of one of the representatives of the mysterious Albion Free State, although it was slightly mitigated by the story of one of the representatives kicking the other one in the groin when he drew a knife on the producer of Open Door upon their arrival at BBC TV Centre. The full clip is on YouTube and looks rather quaint in full context, especially given that one of their aims was to take over pubs), the pretentious (Channel 4’s alternative culture show, Club X, which ultimately foundered on a mix of unwatchable content and the logistical problems which came from staging a live discussion about Dadaist art with acid house music playing in the background. The set of the show was modelled on a nightclub with music playing live and loud throughout the discussions) and the plain wrongheaded (early Channel 4 kids programme, Minipops, which took a harmless-on-paper idea, “pre-pubescent children sing pop songs” and ran into a huge storm when it presented its pre-pubescent cast in full make-up and dressed in ballgowns and nightdresses singing songs loaded with sexual content. Minipops was originally broadcast just before my 7th birthday, I took it against it at that age because I thought it looked poncey. Channel 4 management shared my opinion, but used a differently rhyming word to me though...)
In the middle of all this awfulness and looking resplendent in a Bill Shankly T-shirt, John Peel appeared to present Rock Bottom, a look at some of the tackiest, naffest, campest and crappiest moments in the BBC’s music archive. He was the only credible candidate who could have presented
the show and matched the tone of what TV Hell was looking for, though despite the low-hanging fruit that the programme offered up for our derision, Peel’s links and demeanour tended more towards the “grudging admiration” mentioned at the top of the programme rather than sneery sarcasm. Looking at the Top 10 of awful songs which ended the programme, the irony for me is that while 8 of the songs would have me leaving any disco to go outside for a cigarette, which would be interesting given that I don’t smoke, I’ve now reached the age where the Number 1 record in that list would, if enough drink had been taken, get me on the dancefloor. I’ve also developed an affection for the delightfully silly Y Viva Espana.
Of course, some of you watching the TV Hell video may feel that some of the disc jockeys featured in it have subsequently been guilty of far more heinous things than the music showcased in the programme, but I couldn’t possibly comment.
One final bit from TV Hell saw it kind of predict this blog by featuring both John Peel and “Nicholas Craig’s” guide to period acting “Well, the decision to go for the chicken legs early seems to be paying dividends already.”
I still haven’t seen this film yet...
Videos courtesy of John Peel and Warner Bros.
more background on what had attracted me to H). To my delight, she agreed to go out for an evening with me and we agreed to meet up on Bank Holiday Monday, 31 August. I spent the weekend in a thrilled state of anticipation but was stuck about what to do and where to take her. I hadn’t started going in pubs yet and I wanted to do something with the evening rather than just walk around - and walk is what we would be doing as I hadn’t yet learned to drive. Eventually, I decided that I would take her to the cinema. The only problem was that Falmouth was, at that time, still in the early stages of a 22 year wait for a mainstream cinema to reopen in the town. I didn’t want to spend time waiting for a bus to go to Truro or Redruth in order to see Lethal Weapon 3 or Alien 3 (which I would have been too chicken to see back then given that I was still afraid of horror films at the time), so I
resolved to take her to Falmouth Arts Centre to see The Mambo Kings, because what 17 year old
Cornish woman could possibly resist the enticing prospect of an evening watching a film about Latin
music? Well, evidently this one could, because when I popped down to WH Smith, where she worked, on Bank Holiday morning to check that we were still on for the evening, she looked very worried upon seeing me and apologised to say that, unfortunately, she couldn’t make it, but maybe some other time. I walked out of WH Smith’s knowing that there would be no other time, judging from her body language, but I was confused as to why the sudden change of mind and attitude. I hadn’t even mentioned the words “Mambo Kings”, indeed I hadn’t even spoken to her since the previous Thursday when she had enthusiastically accepted my invitation to meet up on the Monday.
I got my answer a few weeks later when I saw her out in the street holding hands with another boy. Shortly after that, I told a friend of mine, who knew her, about the whole curious business and he came up with an explanation that was either a remarkable piece of reverse serendipity or he was a genius liar trying to spare my feelings. According to my friend, H and the boy I had seen her with had been going out together for two years. Over the Bank Holiday weekend, between my call and our proposed date, my friend had seen H at a party held by The Young Generation in the aftermath of their production of Charlie Girl. H and her boyfriend had both been in the show, but only H had attended the party. She told my friend that she had split up with her boyfriend earlier that week after a row, but was regretting it and worried that he wouldn’t want to take her back. My friend, not knowing that I had asked her on the date, advised her to talk to her boyfriend and the rest was history. If the story is true, I’m glad I didn’t call the week before only to be told, “Um, I’m going out with someone” and have to laugh my own offer off.
Whenever I saw her at Smith’s after that, she was always courteous but detached. My mate, Ben, was convinced she fancied him, often telling me about warm smiles and long looks she’d given him whenever he shopped there. He was a bastard that way, like most teenaged mates are.
So instead of a nervy evening wondering how well things were going with H. while Antonio
Banderas and Armand Assante were battling the Cuban Mafia between mambos, I spent Bank
Holiday evening watching BBC 2’s TV Hell theme night; an evening “celebrating” the worst of
British television. The content ranged from the notorious (Bill Grundy’s sweary teatime interview
with the Sex Pistols), the daft (some of the eccentrics who turned up on Nationwide - bagpipe playing parachutists, people who claimed they could jump on eggs without breaking them etc), the pompous (BBC drama follies like Churchill’s People and The Borgias), the tacky (North Sea ferry set soap opera, Triangle opening with, in the words of Stuart Maconie, “Kate O’Mara sunbathing topless under a sky of pure lead.”), the dull (1982 Saturday night talkshow, Sin on Saturday, which used the Seven Deadly Sins as its theme but failed to excite audiences and was cancelled before the end of its run despite the efforts of Oliver Reed to enliven proceedings), the disturbing (I had unsettled sleep on the night of August 31 after catching sight of one of the representatives of the mysterious Albion Free State, although it was slightly mitigated by the story of one of the representatives kicking the other one in the groin when he drew a knife on the producer of Open Door upon their arrival at BBC TV Centre. The full clip is on YouTube and looks rather quaint in full context, especially given that one of their aims was to take over pubs), the pretentious (Channel 4’s alternative culture show, Club X, which ultimately foundered on a mix of unwatchable content and the logistical problems which came from staging a live discussion about Dadaist art with acid house music playing in the background. The set of the show was modelled on a nightclub with music playing live and loud throughout the discussions) and the plain wrongheaded (early Channel 4 kids programme, Minipops, which took a harmless-on-paper idea, “pre-pubescent children sing pop songs” and ran into a huge storm when it presented its pre-pubescent cast in full make-up and dressed in ballgowns and nightdresses singing songs loaded with sexual content. Minipops was originally broadcast just before my 7th birthday, I took it against it at that age because I thought it looked poncey. Channel 4 management shared my opinion, but used a differently rhyming word to me though...)
In the middle of all this awfulness and looking resplendent in a Bill Shankly T-shirt, John Peel appeared to present Rock Bottom, a look at some of the tackiest, naffest, campest and crappiest moments in the BBC’s music archive. He was the only credible candidate who could have presented
the show and matched the tone of what TV Hell was looking for, though despite the low-hanging fruit that the programme offered up for our derision, Peel’s links and demeanour tended more towards the “grudging admiration” mentioned at the top of the programme rather than sneery sarcasm. Looking at the Top 10 of awful songs which ended the programme, the irony for me is that while 8 of the songs would have me leaving any disco to go outside for a cigarette, which would be interesting given that I don’t smoke, I’ve now reached the age where the Number 1 record in that list would, if enough drink had been taken, get me on the dancefloor. I’ve also developed an affection for the delightfully silly Y Viva Espana.
Of course, some of you watching the TV Hell video may feel that some of the disc jockeys featured in it have subsequently been guilty of far more heinous things than the music showcased in the programme, but I couldn’t possibly comment.
One final bit from TV Hell saw it kind of predict this blog by featuring both John Peel and “Nicholas Craig’s” guide to period acting “Well, the decision to go for the chicken legs early seems to be paying dividends already.”
I still haven’t seen this film yet...
Videos courtesy of John Peel and Warner Bros.
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