Early days at school were alright. After my mothers death I lost all interest in it. Looking back I think that her drawn out death from cancer is probably the making of me. With hindsight I could have gone in any direction. Until this point, I was competitive and rarely came below second in anything. Maybe it is as simple as having someone to impress. She was religious whilst my father, like me, is a devout aetheist. She never smoked, ate healthy food, was a good person yet fate chose her for an early grave. I believe they were very much in love, I can recall no more than 2 or 3 arguments and these were all due to stress, either tiredness whilst transporting three kids around or any other moment that all humans have quick upset. Most of my freinds at school were from broken families, divorced parents. Like seeks like, but there is one fundamental difference. Children from broken marriages may lose trust in love. I never lost that. I did, however lose any belief in god, gain an early awareness of the temporary, that life can be snuffed out for no reason. That it has little baring on you chances to follow any conventionally righteous path, that karma doesn't exist. Whilst liberating me in some ways, I lost all faith in trying to do well at school. If death can intrude so suddenly on your plans then long term thinking is a folly. These weren't thoughts I was able to articulate, just how I reacted. I became disruptive. Used all strengths to spoil lessons, mine and others chances. I was in trouble continually from here till I left. Ultimatly I was banned from German, Physics, Biology, Maths, Chemistry; all these lessons I spent in the Art block. Along with my English lessons that I never tried in I just did Art. As I have said, my Art teacher, Mrs Steel was a solitary beacon and my space in her room a sanctuary where I would silently work. It was peace where all else in my life was chaos. She tried really hard for me; took me to Art colleges, trying to show me that therewas another way. At the time, at home we were left to fend for ourselves. I was cooking from nine years old to feed myself. My dad was broken hearted and overwelmed by the injutice of life and sought solace in alcohol. Though I was angy with him for many years, I have grown to see just how tough a hand he was dealt. It would have broken many people. I have made no better a go of it. He was young and lost. I seldom would see him. I had become entranced by music. Having discovered an older group of people, freaks who lived for chemical enlightenment through LSD, cannabis and mushrooms I took this avenue. Truancy became frequent. One time I was off so long I got scared to go back till social workers were sent out to reel me in. Psychiatrists were brought to the school, they had me down as a glue sniffer though I wasn't one. Mushroom seasons in the autumn became psychedelic whirlwinds that lasted for months. After a series of mushroom parties that me, Martin and Pig, a freind from another school who shared my taste in music parents became worried. The periferal kids were called to the Headmasters office. They fell like dominoes with the finger of suspicion falling in my direction the easy way out was to point the finger at those with least to lose. Me and Martin took the brunt of this though his parents took the terrible action of assuming that it must be me leading him astray and sent him off to a boarding school. I have strong feelings about this as Martin is now dead. There is a part of me that knows he looked up to me and followed my down a route that led to him going to college to study furniture at Rycotewood where as I was to go o Shrewsbury and High Wycombe. His parents, at his funeral seemed to think that the route had led to his death though by then I was in Shropshre, lecturing.
After a term , Martin could take no more. After being dropped with his bags at Leeds train station, he fled. Taking a hitch hike tour of England. The Evening Post led with 'Mssing boy with drg problem.' It read that havin returnd to Leeds he had fallen back in with his bad freinds who led him astray. He had turned up at school, drunk and in despair though I never though he'd run away. The story ran for several weeks. Secretly he had returned to Leeds and was living in the woods where we had built a den called 'The Bivouak'. I was taking food from home to feed him and spending most evenings visiting him. I don't know how we thought it would end but I think his girlfreind from whome he'd been ripped had talked. She didn't know where he was but must have got it from mygirlfrind Anthea. I heard that she had told him and ran 2 miles to try get to him to warn him but as I got to the entrance to the woods, I saw Police cars and Martin being led away.
I missed Martin but made freindships that last to this day with Feddy and Pig Penchion. The Headmaster had him down as some sort of pied piper leading his flock astray. Nothing could be further from the truth. At the inquisition I faced as the main mushroom head in school, the Head asked 'so who is Pin Cushion', his picture of some track marked junky flashed before my eyes, 'or is it Big Pusher?' he continued. Unable to continue as I was contorted with laughter. He shouted at me but I couldn't stop myself . After this I just did art.
Feddy is a successful musician. Pig is a technician. Martin is sadly no longer with us.
I was an Easter leaver. If you were a real numbskull you could leave before taking your O levels. I left home the same day. I would have been 15. I went to live with a gang of freinds a few years older than me in a large terraced house in Harehills. This was to be a halcyon period of my life. I was used to getting £8 a week so a giro seemed huge. We all signed on. Those who are still alive, Turps died some years back, have been very successful though back then you wouldn't have guessed. Our days would be spent smoking dope, our nights tripping on Acid, walking through parks at dawn as psychedelic warlords disappeared in smoke. To a sound track of Hawkwind, Pink Floyd and dub reggae we had our own little underground. Other houses in the area were dotted around where similar types lived. We would go to Stonehenge, Deeply Vale and other free festivals . Travellers and Hells Angels would drop by. Across the road, one night, whilst tripping we heard Music from a window opposite, the only lights on at such an hour. We got to know them and others. All sorts happened and it was a period of great light and happiness, many involved but I won't name as they are now grown up. We thought it would last forever. Drug scenes invariably turn dark. After this house fell through unpaid rent we all spun off in different directions. I moved in to a house with two squatters, began a relationship that was to last five years. These two were more streetwise than me. We got by on vegetables, pinched at night from allotments, milk stolen from doorsteps and wore clothes plucked from washing lines. I never progressed further as a criminal, right and wrong though hazy were still ingrained in me. One night Dalby never came back and me and Sibyl were left with his dog Pavlov, a wild but intelligent dog that regularly walked from one side of the city to another, staying with freinds here and there.
When this house fell, we moved in with Sten and Ron. Sten was drifting in to drug induced schizophrenia and Ron was learning to play bass. I wasn't to see him for 20 years when I met him again in Frome, by then, frontman in Hawkwind.
It felt dark here. Some freinds had moved to a small comunal cotage in Cornwall. Two were moving out soon so I hitched down to ask if me and Sibyl could replace them. Escaping Leeds for the first time was to change me again.
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