by Nick Molloy
I got 4 ‘A’ grades and 4 ‘B’ grades at GCSE and continued with A Levels. The entire sixth form years served to re-emphasize my VSO status. Some school colleagues began to have relationships with their peers. I, in the mean time, continued to look towards my release date and little past it. It seemed to me that so many of my school colleagues were riddled with arrogance. Llantwit was distinctly middle class with higher aspirations. This bordered on snobbishness and I felt this was very well represented by the inhabitants of the sixth year.
We were older now and some of our more childish disagreements from yesteryear were put to one side. However, I just didn’t belong in this group of people. Looking towards my escape at the end of sixth year, I desperately hoped that university would be my saviour, a fresh start with more like-minded individuals. I began counting down the days.
I longed for a girlfriend; someone to extol the pleasures of the flesh with and someone to confide in apart from the dog. However, Miss Llantwit didn’t seem to exist. My two years in sixth form passed much as the previous six had. However, this was not the case for the majority of my schools colleagues. Each passing Monday they would return to the common room and tell tales of their further drunken exploits from the weekend before.
When I was 14-15 I played badminton with a couple of guys in my year who nearly became friends. However, a year later they were more interested in getting drunk and proving their ‘manliness’ by downing pints. They even said they did not like the taste of the liquor. How they were able to afford the expensive drinks they did not like, I don’t know. I guess they borrowed the money from their parents. When I would point out the apparent logicality of their actions, they had no defence. They merely said that men drink.
I was invited to a couple of parties in sixth year (as was the whole sixth form). I even attended one ! However, it was more of the same: people getting drunk, a distinct lack of intelligent conversation and no girlfriend material. Maybe she was out there and I missed her or lacked the social skills to go and get her. Yet, from where I stood, all I could see was mindless, stuck-up, drunken girls completely lacking in personality. I refused to go to any more of such events. They just used to depress me.
Naturally, such isolation leads one to question oneself – Is it me ? Is there something wrong with me ? Is everybody else right and I’m the one in the wrong ? I certainly didn’t make things easy for myself in Llantwit. I didn’t try very hard to adapt and fit in. A couple of incidents from memory however, supported my assertion that my isolation wasn’t all my fault. I maintain that the people and/or culture of Llantwit was very middle to upper class and isolationist. During the brief time I played football for the under 12 team, one of the matches was against Grangetown (a rough suburb of Cardiff). At the end of the game (which we won), a couple of their players offered to swap shirts. Our players looked upon the offer like they had just been given a vial of the bubonic plague and told to down it in one ! I swapped shirts and was rebuked for doing so.
This alienation/isolationist practice was repeated in a different way when I was in the sixth year. As part of our geography A level we had to spend a week away at a study centre. We were there with another group of sixth years from a Cardiff school. I instantly got on with many of the Cardiff students. I also fancied one of the Cardiff girls. If I had any confidence and maybe a method of transport I would have asked her out. However, at that stage I completely lacked the confidence to do so. Anyway, the Llantwit students kept themselves to themselves and didn’t mix with the Cardiff students at all. A bus delivered us back to Llantwit at the end of the week and I was saying several goodbyes, but I was the only Llantwitian doing so. Although not openly rebuked, my mixing with the Cardiff crowd was clearly frowned upon by my other classmates. It only added fuel to my theory that all would have been well if my parents had moved to Cardiff instead of a tiny colloquial town.
I remember the above week well. It was also the time I was first introduced to Roachford. Top of the Pops came on the TV in the evening and I heard what I can only describe as an inspirational track. I acquired the album, and the track Get Ready became my gospel : “How long can the walls of the past remain. How long can a mountain be too high to climb. Nothing don’t last forever. Everything changes in time. Get Ready for the dawning. How long is too late to change. Just how much do you care if tomorrow is still the same”. It was as if Andrew Roachford had written the track about me for me. I couldn’t stop listening to it. It was like a connection, as if there was somebody out there who actually understood. It still inspires me to this day.
My failing to acquire a girlfriend had not gone unnoticed at home. My mother used to constantly bitch at me because I was the only person in the entire sixth form who hadn’t attended the said party the previous week (having a son who was an outcast probably caused the other wives to talk). Also, she used to go on about how so and so’s mother had told her that so and so brought home a new girlfriend the other week. I’m not sure whether making me privy to such information was designed to make me go and acquire a token girlfriend or possibly just to make me feel depressed and inadequate. Needless to say, it did the latter.
Furthermore, my grand-mother (on my mum’s side) would ask finger pointed questions about whether I found anyone in my class attractive. It wasn’t long after that when my mum told me that my grand-mother had been telling everybody in the family that I must be gay due of my lack of girlfriend. I now have countless numbers of gay friends and it irks me even more with hindsight, that both my mum and grand-mother tried to attach stigma to how they were labelling me. They didn’t refer to me as gay, they instead suggested that I might be ‘queer’ as if something might be insidiously wrong with me.
Throughout this entire time, no-one sought to comfort me and even find out whether I had an opinion on the subject. I could have had a secret girlfriend for all they knew. What if I was gay ? I can’t help but think that if I was gay, I would have been that stain on the family name, the social stigmata who brought shame on many. Many people now assume that I am gay (I take it as a complement). However, back then the accusation cut through me like a sharp spear. All I wanted was a girl whom I could love and vice versa. Yet, as usual, those who should have been the closest people to me seemed not to understand or even show any interest in me. My isolation felt complete and I couldn’t wait to leave home.
I began to apply for university places. I had this wonderful idea (albeit very naïve) at the time that advertising would be the industry for me. I wanted to be an advertising copywriter (the guy that writes and comes up with the witty strap-lines for advertisements). I figured that it would be creative, I liked the idea of not wearing suits and at the time advertising executives were getting rich. Like many things in hindsight, it seemed like a good plan at the time.
Not knowing any better, a degree in Marketing seemed a good solution. Naively, I thought such a course would teach me the skills of and lead me into my chosen profession. Marketing courses were largely the domain of the new universities or old polytechnics. In our new wonderful, politically correct climate, polytechnics had been wiped out and everybody was put on an imaginary equal footing. Of the old universities at the time, only two had specialist marketing courses; Lancaster and Stirling. Since I was allowed to apply to five old universities, I applied to three others in History, as I was predicted to get a straight A at A Level and it was my favourite subject. It encouraged analysis and deep thought. Furthermore, thinking outside of the box was rewarded and encouraged. Essentially it was my sort of subject.
I sat a MENSA IQ test, thinking it would look good on the application form. I scored 153, apparently placing me in the top 1% of all scores. For the first time in a long time, I had a sense of optimism about the future. Any thoughts of working in the sex industry were completely alien to me….
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Well there I was, working for and about to be featured in a mainstream glossy magazine. Maybe I should have felt that I had finally made the
big time, but, I’d been a cynic for more years than I cared to remember. The day that the mainstream media begin reporting fairly, logically and truthfully I’ll drink a bottle of undiluted baby oil. Therefore, there simply had to be a catch.
Since my incarnation as a wily wiggler, I had received many phone calls from TV companies and their minions. Populated by the public school jet set, my dealings with them did nothing to allay my increasing sense of dismay with the world. I looked into working in the media before leaving university. However, unless you are willing to initially work for dog biscuits it seemed a pointless affair. No wonder it remains the domain of the public school/Oxbridge clique. People from ordinary backgrounds couldn’t afford to eat whilst they gained their experience. Wealthy parentage is a big step up into all professions, some more than others…..
The researchers (those that make the initial telephone calls) from the various TV programmes, typically seem to have heads filled with air. Similarly, they all seem to have had their ears surgically removed. They either react incredulously or don’t seem to hear the fact that you would want to be paid to appear on their TV programme. Mummy and Daddy may well be funding their dabble with the media, but some of us still need to eat.
The Tricia show used to be a regular caller, but two of their researchers had heart attacks when I asked for payment. They don’t call me anymore because they keep having to find new researchers. The Graham Norton show wanted me to come and get my dick out for nothing. When I enquired about payment, they talked about the possibility of travel expenses. The budget for the show is huge, probably millions and they are trying to pull stunts like this !
It is a similar story on the modelling circuit. I once did a charity catwalk event appearing alongside a guy off big brother called Kemal. When the cameras were rolling he played the character off Big Brother, when the cameras were turned off he blended into the crowd. Dozens of so called models were present on this day, preening themselves, putting on their makeup (including the men) and generally trying to look beautiful. I talked to well over a dozen of them. All were regulars on the catwalk. All had posh accents. None of them had ever got paid for modelling, but, they all lived in hope.
Yet here I was about to model and get paid by FHM (a major high street glossy men’s magazine). The story was that I was to be pitched head to head against a porn movie and female stripper in a contest to see who could turn on a panel of ‘FHM High Street Honeys’ the most. A guy with an infrared camera was going to point his device at the girls to see if blood was flowing to any parts of their bodies that we couldn’t visually see with the eyes. That way, we would know if they were getting turned on. I was told I would only be needed for an hour or so at most. However, in true journalistic wanting everything for nothing style, I was actually there most of the day.
First the truth. The four ‘honeys’ claimed not to be turned on at all by the porn movie (at least not whilst all those strangers were watching). Mr. Infrared and I seemed far more amused by the images flickering from the screens. The female stripper had more success, but the girls were actually terrified of being perceived as lesbians. They partook in a little pole dancing lesson but remained very distant. They warmed to Sexecute far more. Possibly this was because he was the last item of the day and their inhibitions had lessened slightly. Also he was a male stripper, something the honeys would find more socially acceptable to be aroused by (compared to the other competitors). They were also being encouraged to be more demonstrative by the photographer, because frankly they had been a bit of a damp squib for most of the day. Comments were passed by the crew on how I was the first one to bring them to life a little.
Mr. Infrared had been a complete waste of money. He was actually some sort of plumber and his camera was actually used for detecting damaged pipes in walls. I was even directed to slap one of the honeys on the tits and remove my hand slowly, hoping to bring about some infrared effect, but still nothing showed up.
Now for the write up. Terry Christian alluded in his book to how it was a waste of time ever meeting a journalist for an interview because they had a pre-script that they had to stick to. That is, they had already written the story and meeting the personalities from within the story was just a journalistic formality. Sometimes they needed a photograph to go with it, but in any case, they were going to write the story how they perceived their readership wanted to see it. So it was in this case.
The porn film was written off as a limited success. The male stripper wasn’t shown in the magazine, and his write up was lukewarm. The female stripper however had her image displayed clearly and the write up said that the honeys were basically gagging for her (not hiding behind the couch which was closer to the truth). Lots of specially constructed infrared images, all coloured in on a computer were present to back up the mendacity. I should have guessed really. They spent the best part of the afternoon trying to coax the honeys into liking the female stripper and arranging suitable photographic angles. I was given about 20 minutes at the end of the day with one take. The message of the article was, of course, take your girlfriend to a lap dancing club immediately. They are all gagging for a lesbian threesome. I repeat, why are we so anaesthetized to the lies ?
Chapter 2 – Character Rebuild
I got the necessary grades and was packaged off to Stirling to begin my new life as a wanabee marketer. Scottish degrees last four years (instead of the usual three) and given the vagaries of the Scottish degree system I was unable to study any marketing until the third year of my course ! I had a broad choice of courses for the first two years, studying a wide variety including business studies, history, psychology and philosophy.
My excitement was evident when the day came for me to leave Llantwit Major to go to Stirling for the first time. My thoughts abounded with optimism and the possibilities that a fresh start may bring. Exploration, women, debauchery and new friends all filled my thoughts. I was sorry to leave Jasper behind, but I wasn’t going to miss much else. I am sure my parents meant everything for the best, but moving away from Little Lever had seen my world fall apart. University was my new beginning.
I was guaranteed a room on campus for the first year and the future once again had a rosy tinge. Any thoughts of trepidation at the prospect of living alone and away from home for the first time were non-existent. I had served my sentence and I wanted to escape.
Things didn’t get off to the best of starts, when upon arriving in Stirling, I was informed that they had an accommodation crisis. For the first time in their relatively new 25 year history, they had been unable to provide all first years with a place on campus (the government in their infinite wisdom had set new targets for students to be placed in higher education irrespective of competency and more students had enrolled than ever before). As a result, my first night at Stirling was spent sharing a room in a hotel with Matt. This was a blessing in disguise, one of those rare times where fate gave me a disguised hand. Matt became a great friend and remains so to this day.
Neither of us were particularly happy about being homeless without a place on campus. We would just have to wait patiently for the natural attrition rate of the first two weeks to take its toll and for a room to become available. The first few weeks of university are often the hardest for ‘normal’ people. By normal, I mean people who come from perfectly functional homes and backgrounds. They are after all separated from their friends and loved ones for the first time and this takes its toll on some. People drop out and return to their haven of comfort with their parents. Being a child of dysfunction, I merely had to sit and wait for the ‘weak’ normal ones to die off (in the case of the suicidal quite literally). Sure enough it happened after we had been homeless for about a fortnight.
In the meantime, Matt and I managed as best we could living out of our small hotel room. We were both conscious that we were missing out somewhat on social introductions to potential new found friends and societies. We used to prowl the halls of residences at night searching for suitably populated
kitchens where we could mingle and hopefully find a kettle where we could boil some water for our pot noodles. Neither of us had a clue about cooking and even if we did, we lacked the facilities to cook. Our diet was shocking ! It consisted largely of cereal, pot noodles and chocolate bars ! The first time we went to the laundrette was an experience. We had to be accompanied by an ‘expert’ who knew how to work the machines !