Yeah, Yeah, I've Heard It All Before

Do you believe that Deja Vu exists; that it is a genuine (perhaps psychic) phenomenon that can occur within the human brain? Or do you think that it is simply a trick of the mind; a product perhaps of our lives being, for the most part, controlled by routines and conformity, so that what may seem like an eerily exact re-occurence is in actual fact nothing more than a symptom of our lives being really fucking boring?

I don't know the answer. I mean, I don't even know if there is an answer. It's entirely possible that some sciencey boffin has already explained away the phenomenon and a simple google search would give me a full explanation full of words like neuroencephelocardioliphic, biointuitivloriagraph, andbrain. Where would be the fun in that though, eh?

I have, like most people I suspect, had a few occasions in my life were I've suddenly experienced really vivid deja vu; when I've become convinced that I've lived that particular moment before. One in particular has stuck with me, in extreme detail, for the 20some years since it happened. And yet, as adamant as my brain is that it happened; as vivid as the memory is; as clear as I can see it now, in my head (and it's like I'm right there); I know that it can only be, in clinical terms, utter bullshit. Allow me to explain...

I was in Mr V.'s class. Morning assembly was called and we all trooped our merry way to the assembly hall, chattering merrily among ourselves as Mr V trudged along behind us in his dirty mac, pausing every few feet to take a sip from his poorly concealed whiskey bottle. Upon arrival at the hall we took our accustomed positions; legs crossed, arms folded; and waited for the fun to begin. That is, waiting for Mr V. to be far enough away that it would be too much effort for him to come back and admonish us when we started pissing about. At which time, we, well, started pissing about.

We started up with our favourite assembly pastime of 'Who Can Slap Themselves Across The Face The Hardest Without Flinching', and the game as going swimmingly, until such time as the Headmaster came into the hall behind us, saw me slap myself across the face and laugh, and immediately started into a rather loud; not to mention embarrassing; telling off of my good self. Uncalled for, I say. I mean, who was I hurting? Anyway, at this point, the deja vu began.

You see, I was convinced that I had heard this telling off before. I mean, word for word. And the reactions of everyone else in the hall were the same as I remembered them as well; my mates looking ashen, knowing it could have been them who were caught; the younger kids giggling and smirking; the teachers looking stern but a couple of them obviously trying too stifle grins. All of it, I was convinced, exactly as it had happened before.

Having finished his little rant, the Head went on his way to the front of the assembly and I put all thought of this 'psychic power' to one side, because it was radio morning! Yes, one assembly a week was set aside to listen to a serial on the radio; I'm assuming Radio4?? I don't really know; and the one we were currently embroiled in was some adventure thing about a bunch of kids. You know; Secret Seven, Famous Five, Not Terribly Bright Nine; that sort of thing. I was keen to see what daring derring-do would be afoot this week.

As it turns out, I already knew. The Head turned on the radio when it was time, the music played, the actors started talking and... I recognised every line! I knew precisely what they were going to say next! I knew the entire plot of the episode. At one point, I nudged my mate sitting next to me and whispered "They're playing the wrong episode. This is from last week." but he just looked at me funny, shook his head and shushed me. Well Fuck You too mate, I didn't think, cos I was a good kid. (Yeah right)

The show ended and the Head did his little speech about harvest festival or sports day or whatever other rubbish he was spouting on about, but I didn't hear any of it because I was sitting stewing over the fact that no-one else seemed to have noticed that we were listening to the same thing again. Had we been? Or was I really psychic, like the 'telling off' incident had hinted at?

I'm not going to lie to you; I worried about that incident for weeks afterward. I was convinced that I was going mad, especially since everyone I mentioned it to said that there had been no problem with the show and it had been all new. Eventually though, because I was a kid, and had a kid's short attention span, I got over it.

The truth is, all appearances to the contrary, I'm not a fool. I know that the story I just told you, didn't happen. It couldn't have, short of the whole school, Head included, conspiring to play a trick on me, and even at the height of my paranoia I would have had trouble believing that. So why does my memory tell me it did? Because in my head, I am adamant.

I have a theory; only a theory mind. I think it's possible that the story I told you was a dream. Bear with me; the assembly happened, the telling off happened, the radio play happened. Then I went home and dreamed the 2nd experience; a dream so vivid and intense that my mind has logged it as a memory. A memory that has subsumed the original, accurate memory of the incident. As I say though, it's only a theory; for all I know, I really am psychic. Or mad. One of those two.

Bloody Hell. He's Pissed Himself.

Hello. You will all be glad to hear that the happiness of last week has not subsided, but also, I'm sure, equally glad that it's not going to stop me delving into the pit of misery that was my childhood. Yes, let's this train back on track.

I would be a horrible biographer; far too easily distracted you see. A few posts back I recounted the tale of my run ins with scruff. I told of my first meeting with him, and I told of our most memorable encounters. The thing I didn't make properly clear, was that there was a couple of years between those two points. Problem is, when next I discussed school, I stuck with the latter period, and gave you the story of Mr.V. All well and good, you might think, except that that leaves a pretty hefty gap in the timeline, and at least one major (or minor, if you're anyone else, but it'll stay with me forever) incident. Yes, the time my crippling shyness joined forces with my defective body, to embarrass me in front of my entire class. Oh joy.

To fully explain this little tale, we don't just need to rewind a year, to the incident in question, but much further back, to the days of the The Hallowed Flat. It was while we were living in The Hallowed Flat, that my parents had decided my wetting of the bed had become problematical. I was too old for such things, they said, and it had to stop. Sadly, their usual methods of physical violence and ritual humiliation ("YOUR SISTER DOESN'T WET THE BED! SHE'S YOUNGER THAN YOU! THE BABY WETS THE BED, DO YOU LIKE BEING LIKE THE BABY? IS THAT WHAT YOU ARE? ARE YOU A BABY? ARE YOU? WELL? Do you want cornflakes or weetabix?") failed to bear fruit and eventually the decision was made to take me to the Doctor.

Turns out I had a weak bladder; it wasn't developing as quickly as it should. It's a common thing, by all accounts, and not permanent. Eventually, it would 'toughen up' as it were, but in the meantime I'd just have to live with it.

Although to be fair, it did mean I got to wear the Electric Shock Buzzer Of Doom, so that was cool. The ESBOD, which is not, I hasten to add, the name the Doctor gave it, was a device that clipped to your pyjamas, and had a sensor that went into your underwear. If you started to wet yourself, it would detect it and an alarm would go off. Hopefully you would then wake up and be able to control yourself long enough to get to the toilet. You'd still need to go more than other people, but at least you weren't going in your bed. I feared that device like no-ones business. Irrational, maybe, but you see all those safety videos at school, and learn the whole electricity/water connection, and then attach something like that to your nethers? Frightening shit for a little kid.

Anyway, yes, I had a weak bladder. For the most part it was only really a problem when I slept; if I was conscious I was usually able to hold it until I got to the toilet. Usually. Sometimes though, the urge would be too sudden, or the distance too great, or some other factor would get in the way, and I'd pee my pants in public. This went on for years; the public incidents until I was about 10, the bed wetting until into my teens. Bad times.

And it's the last of those public incidents that prompts today's entry. I was in the class below Mr V's and the teacher; let's call him Mr R (because his name started with R, so, you know, it makes sense); was doing a bit of a roundup of the days events, as was his wont before he let us go home; what we had learned about, who had done particularly well at what, or what he wanted us to be thinking about at home; which rarely, if ever, included Turtles with ninja skills or muscle bound men waving a sword around while screaming about being in possession of large amounts of power; to my mind showing a disturbing lack of understanding of his audience. He was droning on and on and suddenly I could feel the familiar, desperate urge to go. This wasn't one of the slow builds; this was full on from minute one. I knew there was no chance I could hold it for long.

So I did the sensible thing, right? I put up my hand and requested permission to go to the toilet. Right? Er, no. That would be too simply. Instead, I allowed the crippling shyness that prevented me from doing anything, and I mean anything, to draw attention to myself, to take hold. Were this the middle of a lesson, and I could have gone to his desk and quietly whispered that I needed the toilet, I would have done that. To interrupt him while he was talking and say it in front of the whole class? Unthinkable.

Now, here's the thing; parents were arriving*, so I knew that he would have to be wrapping things up soon. I hadn't had a public 'accident' in a long while and I was adamant that I could hold it. I crossed my legs and I squeezed and I tried very hard to keep all of my concentration on the job at hand...

"Paul, could you come and hand out these homework sheets for me please?"

Bugger.

I looked around me nervously. People were looking at me. I didn't want to draw attention to myself by not doing what I was told, but at the same time... I stood up, I took a single step toward MR R. The floodgates opened. There was nothing I could do; I felt it happen and I just stopped, dead in my tracks, looked down, and watched as the biggest wet patch you've ever seen engulfed the crotch (and crotch adjacent) areas of my trousers.

I heard some strangled gasps from other members of my class but I think everyone was too shocked to react beyond that, although one of the mothers gave out a muffled "Bloody Hell, he's pissed himself." Mr R. just stared at me with this haunted look on his face; either he just really hated the sight of pee, or he was having flashbacks to a horrible childhood experience of his own, hitherto suppressed in the pits of his sub-conscious. Probably that one, yeah.

For my part I just kept quiet until I was sure the flow had fully exhausted itself and then I looked Mr R. square in the face and said, as calmly as possible in the circumstances...

"Sir." "I'm wet."

So there you have it. The tale of my very last public (accidental) urination incident. Although it very nearly wasn't. The following year, during a period of illness for Mr V (which we of course attributed to his rampant alcoholism) we had a lovely young substitute teacher. A lovely young substitute teacher with a heart of pure malice, that is. I requested permission to go to the toilet and she refused. I asked again and she refused again. She gave me a very stern lecture about how I was old enough now to wait until break time to go to the toilet. I wasn't a little baby, after all.

I returned to my desk (still not having mastered the art of asking from my seat, where others might hear me) and proceeded to mist up around the old eye muscles. I knew it was going to happen again. It was inevitable. And I knew I'd have weeks, if not months of torment and ridicule to look forward to if it did. Tears were forthcoming, I knew it. Then I heard a voice... "Miss, why can't Paul go to the toilet?" "Yeah Miss, you have to let him go." "He's got a weak bladder Miss, you have to let him go, it's not fair Miss, he'll pee himself."

Yes, my friends were fighting my cause for me. Admittedly they were fighting my cause with an argument I could have used myself if I wasn't a quivering coward who didn't dare speak back to a person of authority, but still... The teacher backed down, I was allowed to go for a wee, and the day was saved by the best friends a boy could ever have. Although personally, I think they just didn't want me to piss myself anywhere near them.


*Our school allowed parents to come into the school and pick you up straight from your class in Winter, to stop them having to wait in the cold. As someone who regularly collects a child from school, this is a policy I would heartily endorse the return of. I'm sure the security issues could be handled, right?

Mr V.

I talk a lot on this blog about adults who let me down, during my childhood; people who should have, and in an ideal world would have, supported me and nurtured me and looked to my best interests when I couldn't myself. I talk of my parents; the alcoholic bully of a mother and the absentee father; or the Granddad who beat us, or the dickhead pseudo-stepdad who shot me in the head.

There were others though, short in supply though they may have been, who did attempt, in their own small way, to put me on the right track. One such person was my teacher, in my final year of Junior School; 4th year we called it, but I suppose now I must refer to it as Year 6. His name will go unrecorded here, although he has the honour of being one of the few teachers whose names I remember. We shall simply call him, Mr V.

The thing about Mr V. was that everyone joined his class with a certain trepidation in their hearts.
I remember saying to my mate Chris, on the first day of our year in his class, "I say old chap," I said, "I'm feeling a good bit of trepidation about this whole affair, and I don't mind saying so, what!"
"Bally good call, old man, I was saying much the same to Mother, just last evening" he replied.
As you do. Anyway, the reason for everyone's trepidation upon entering his class; aside from the inherent pressure you felt knowing that this was the last year of junior school before BIG SCHOOL came calling; was that the man had a rep. A rep for strictness, short temperedness, over familiarity, and alcoholism. A terrifying combination.

Now, lets be honest here. As adults, it's plain to see that while, yes, he may have been strict and quite possibly short tempered; these are not unfamiliar traits in teachers. However, if he was 'over familiar' (read: a homosexual predator), or indeed an alcoholic; and to such an extent that the children in his class were actively discussing it and warning younger kids about it; you'd think that word would probably have reached someone in a position of authority, wouldn't you? Of course it would; the stories were nonsense. Logic isn't really a factor though, when you're 10. At that age you believe what you're told, and the kids in his class; the top class, the big lads; well, their words were gospel! So in we toddled, found some seats, and settled in to meet the ogre.

At this point, I'd like to explain a little about the rumours. Namely, the homosexual predator one. Now, I like to think that I'm a fairly right-minded, liberal person; I don't have much in the way of prejudices (although I do come over 'very' right wing on one particular issue, which we shan't go into here) but I come from a long line of people who do. Be it race, disability, or sexual orientation, the people in my family, and indeed the people in my immediate social circle, were not exactly known for their inclusiveness. People like the Scottish/Pakistani family who lived near us where constantly referred to as 'dirty bastards' and I was expressly forbidden from having anything to do with one of the lads in my class because he was black, while 'bummer', 'faggot', 'retard' and 'spaz' were everyday words. Such was my upbringing; so the thought of being taught by a gay teacher did, at that time, fill me with a degree of dread. I'm not proud.

The seats that we found, my bezzie and me, were against a wall, and behind our seats, near the skirting board, there was a hole in the floorboard. We discussed it between ourselves, and we decided that this must be where Mr V. would hide the alcohol. We never did look down the hole, to see if we were correct; we said because we 'didn't dare', but I suspect it was more that we just didn't want to be found wrong. The chance to add our own little bit to the Mr V. legend was too strong. Sure enough, by the end of the 1st week it was accepted as fact amongst all the kids of the school, that Mr V. kept bottles of booze under the floor in his classroom. Again, I'm not proud.

He was a great guy though, was Mr V. He had this amazing ability to have one conversation with a kid, and make them feel like they'd known him all their life, and that he understood them. He also had enough sense to acknowledge when people would not benefit from the prescribed curriculum; I participated in one group reading session, before being banished to a corner with a novel, and he never asked to hear me read again. It was this last that made him such an important figure in my life.

You see, I'm a reader. I'd always been a reader. I started school at 4 already able to read, which saw my mother getting told off by the teachers, because I was throwing off the level of the class. From that point on, not one single teacher had the initiative to say, 'you know what, he's beyond this, let's give him something more challenging.' The curriculum said that someone of my age should read at a certain level, that's the level they made me read at. Made for some pretty depressing and demoralising lessons, I can tell you. With Mr V. though, things were different.

He would ask me, have you read this book, have you read that book, and I'd say no, because I'd spent the last few years reading about pixies and unicorns. He introduced me to Jack London and Charles Dickens and Tolkien. He taught me that it was OK to read for pleasure, rather than just for school; a lesson I'd once known, but which had been beaten out of me by his predecessors (not literally, you understand; even then, that kind of thing was frowned upon. They thought it far more sporting to let the parents do it), and he entered one of my short stories into a competition, marking the 1st time anyone had ever considered anything I'd written as being worthy of comment. I didn't win; didn't even place; but he'd entered it. That meant something.

So, after all of that, you'd think I'd have a bit of respect for the man, wouldn't you? That I'd defend him from the slurs and the rumours and the accusations. Yeah, no. I respected him inside of course; worshiped the man, if truth be known, but on the surface, well, what can I say? He was a teacher and I was a pupil; there was no way in Hell I could ever take his side. So I joined in the jokes and I told my stories of his secret Vodka stash and I made sure that all the kids in the 3rd year were suitably warned of the predatory beast they were soon to encounter. Say it with me; I'm not proud.

I'm sure Mr V. knew what we said about him. I'm sure it grieved him. I just hope that my own, personal, involvement, after all he'd done for me, didn't cut too deeply.