by Bishop, John
What I loved about America – and still do – is that from the beaches to the desert to the bustling cities, at any moment you could feel like you had walked onto a movie set. I felt like I knew the place before I ever went there and, once there, the people made me feel like they knew me. Wherever I went, people were open and friendly. There is an accepted view that American people are rather shallow and the friendliness is fake, as opposed to the sincere unfriendliness of the British. For what it’s worth, I would prefer a shallow ‘Have a nice day’ to a sincere ‘Who you looking at?’ any day.
Some struggled with my accent, and most believed I was Scottish or, occasionally, Eastern European. Rather than explain, I sometimes allowed them to believe what they liked until this backfired while in Arizona. A man in a restaurant heard me order and asked if I was Hungarian. When I said yes, because it seemed the easiest thing to do, he left and, unknown to me, drove across town to return an hour later, just as I was finishing my meal, with his 80-year-old Hungarian mother. He also brought his wife, his brother and two teenage children, who looked as bored as it is possible to look whilst still being awake.
He said he hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity to allow his mother to converse in her mother tongue. They came and sat at the table with me, their mother opposite, the family members around me. I was alone, so couldn’t even use the excuse of being with someone who had to leave. I just looked across at the 80-year-old grandmother, who returned my stare with her steely blue eyes.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m John.’
‘Dipstright metnntixed olovich, du bitettezxe ishtach wwwxxxyyy lolliocvihz itchvitch usstarllaha quitchevitch rrroollle,’ she said, or words to that effect.
The family looked at me for my response, as if they had been hearing this jumble of words for years and wanted someone to tell them what it all meant. I felt terrible, as I clearly had no idea what she was saying and, as far as I could tell, neither did anyone else. I knew I had to say something so just tried, ‘Daa’ and nodded my head.
There was a moment’s pause then, glancing at her sons before looking back at me, she smiled the broadest of smiles and said: ‘Daa daa.’
The sons laughed, and one slapped me on the back as the wife gave the mum a gentle squeeze. The teenagers looked like they were aware something had happened, but couldn’t decide if this was something they should be bored with or just hate for the sake of it, as it appeared these were the only emotions they allowed themselves.
We then sat for a further fifteen minutes with the old lady saying things to me that I didn’t understand and which I was not completely convinced were words at all. All I did was respond with ‘Daa’, which seemed to satisfy her every time and, as a result, pleased her sons and the daughter-in-law, whilst boring her grandchildren.
When they left, there were many heartfelt hugs and handshakes from the sons and ‘whatever’ looks from the grandchildren, but from the lady herself there was a look in her eye when we said goodbye that made me suspect that the old lady was more relieved than I was that this had gone well.
I concluded that at some point in her courtship with the son’s father she had tried to make her own life seem exotic by telling him that she was Hungarian. This tale had then perhaps passed on through the family, possibly with stories of being a spy in the war and running away to defect to the West; all tales that would sound credible living in Hicksville, Arizona where the story could never really be challenged. Now a Hungarian was in town, she had been put to the test, only to discover I was lying as well, and so as long as neither of us broke the code we could both be exotic. I may be wrong, but when she hugged goodbye and said ‘Thank you’ it was with the least East European accent I had ever heard.
I decided not to return to Newcastle Poly after that first summer in the US. I knew that I loved playing sport but didn’t think I would want to spend three years studying it. I also wanted to live somewhere else. I had been to Newcastle and had enjoyed it, but I suspected that when I went back everyone would have moved on a year and I would always feel I was neither a genuine first year nor an established student. It seemed to me that the best option would be to apply somewhere completely new.
My only problem was that I hadn’t applied to anywhere else. So, upon returning from America, I resolved to spend a day at Manchester Polytechnic to see what courses still had vacancies. I picked Manchester because it was far enough away from home for me to be independent, but not too far for me not to get there and back in a day on the train whilst I looked into what places were available.
This process basically involved me walking around each faculty in alphabetical order and trying to convince them I wanted to join them, but had not applied for the following reasons:
1. I have been to America.
2. I applied, but it must have got lost in the post.
3. I have been to Australia.
4. You must have lost the paperwork because someone phoned our house to say I had a place.
5. I had wanted to apply, but wasn’t sure if I would be needed to look after my sick relative in Australia/America/New Zealand/Runcorn.
Obviously these were very thin excuses or downright blatant lies but, as the courses were all starting the following week, I had nothing to lose. I eventually found myself in the Social Science faculty and, after a brief conversation with the head of politics, I was told he was not sure if they had a place, but he would ring me that week if they did. It was Tuesday and the course started the following Monday. But I still had a place waiting for me in Newcastle to start on the Monday.
I decided that I should ask for my place at Newcastle to be put back another year, during which time I would get a job whilst I tried to work out what I wanted to do. I made an appointment with the head of the course on the Friday, and explained to him that I had not informed him earlier that I could not start the following week because:
1. I have been to America.
2. I applied for a deferral, but it must have got lost in the post.
3. I have been to Australia.
4. You must have lost the paperwork because someone phoned our house to say I could defer my place.
5. I had wanted to apply for a deferment, but wasn’t sure if I would be needed to look after my sick relative in Australia/America/New Zealand/Runcorn.
The head of sport science told me a place would always be there for me; all I had to do was let them know when I was ready to start.
Years later, when I was working for a drug company and drove past the newly named Northumbria University, seeing bubbly students outside whilst I was drifting into the corporate numbness of being a salesman for ever, it crossed my mind to turn up to see if he was as good as his word.
On the day I left his office, I felt like I had made a good decision, but not knowing why. I had no course, no job and no direction. It was late on Friday afternoon, and I called home to tell my mum I was thinking of staying up in Newcastle for the weekend with some mates from the year before. She then told me that someone from Manchester Polytechnic had called and to phone them back. I scratched the number into the wall of the phone box as I had no pen and not enough change to get a pen and call back.
I called the number and spoke to the social sciences lecturer I had met earlier in the week. He informed me that they had one more place on the politics course, and I could have it. I said ‘yes’, and my life took another turn in a completely unexpected direction.
CHAPTER 10
THE MANCHESTER YEARS
What never ceases to amaze me in life is that we can never predict how our world will look based on the small decisions we all make. Having moved to Manchester, I rented a room in the flat of my old history teacher, Dave Debbage, so I was slightly out of touch with the main body of the student population housed in the halls of residence.
However, on the first day of my course, I sat next to a girl with an easy smile. She was from Northern Ireland, and called Julie. I could have sat anywhere in the room, but we got
into conversation and that led Julie to introduce me to her new friends from her halls of residence. Julie now lives back home in Northern Ireland, and I see her every time I tour in that part of the world. As for the lads she introduced me to, they were to become my brothers-in-arms throughout my three years in Manchester and some remain my best friends today.
The night I first met Sergei he was on crutches from an ankle injury. He came from Chelmsford, had mad, curly hair, and was the most Southern Counties person I had ever met. Next I met Harvey, a good-looking boy who had a neatness about him which suggested he was likely to be one of the few males in the building who knew how to use an iron. In later years he became a photographer, and was to take the picture used on my first DVD, Elvis Has Left the Building. Del was one of the other lads I met. Everyone who goes to college knows a Del. He was from Middlesbrough, and the jumper he wore that first night was the same jumper he wore for the next three years in Manchester. The final person I met was Matt who, as the son of a serviceman, had grown up in Germany, had long ginger hair and was into rock music. Every student house of the time had to have someone who was into rock music, it was a rule. The ginger hair, though, was optional. Along with John, a skinny, tall lad from Belfast, I was to share almost every day with these lads during the three years it took to gain my degree. We lived together throughout our time at Manchester Poly and I was lucky to have them as mates.
Although I don’t think my student days differed significantly from those of many other people, I did play semi-professional football at that time, which limited the normal student excesses. I was committed to being out of the house either training or playing three times a week, including some games for the Sunday league side my dad was running. This meant that, unlike most other students, I hardly drank anything stronger than shandy, and never went out on a Friday. Not only did I love playing football, I also needed the income. The £40–£75 a week I earned made a huge difference to the life I could have, and I never in all that time had to ask my mum and dad for money. I was independent, and enjoying the many things that student life had to offer as much as I could.
We didn’t live with any girls for those three years – it was just us six lads together, plus additional members depending on the size of the house, primarily Blainey, Wiggy and Big Dick – the first two being nicknames derived from their surnames, whereas Big Dick was a lad who was six foot seven tall and his Christian name was Richard, hence a funny nickname that was also factually correct. The largest population we had in one house was ten. In that house, I was the only one who didn’t smoke. Sitting in a living room watching the TV whilst nine people smoked was not only a significant health risk, it was also pointless because you couldn’t see across the room to see the telly. So I had to guess what was going on based on the sound. We should have saved ourselves some money and just put a radio in the room.
I don’t know if you have ever walked into a house where ten male students of varying levels of immaturity and hygiene live; it is hardly surprising that not many girls wanted to come back. We were used to landlords keeping their deposits when our tenancy was over, but that was irrelevant in one particular case when we were forced to move out because the building couldn’t take it any more and had decided to fall down around us.
I grew to really like the Didsbury area of Manchester, and I look back on those years very fondly. From Manchester Poly I gained a degree (a 2:1, as it happens, in case you’re interested), fantastic memories, life-long friends who are the closest people in the world to me still and, something I wasn’t expecting, a person who would change the whole course of the rest of my life.
It was the end of second year and I was in the library one day doing some of the studying I should have done earlier in the term. It was May and the end-of-year exams were looming, so the library was much busier than usual. It is often said that the only way to get students to use a library is to put a bar and a DJ inside, and to an extent my student experience mirrored that view. As far as I was concerned, the library was like the clap clinic: you went when you really had to, and not before.
I had ridden my pushbike from the communal house in Didsbury I was sharing with the ‘famous five’ and a bloke none of us knew who already lived there and was obsessed with milk theft. The landlord, Smedley, was a builder. He would call around covered in plaster dust on a Friday and, standing at the bottom of the stairs, would shout ‘Duke of Kent, lads.’ Student chequebooks would then be produced and payments made. That, of course, was at the start of the year. By the end, money would be running low, so a few of the lads would play hide and seek. But as Smedley was a builder, he would turn up with some mates off the site. Though they may have just been calling in for a cup of tea (bring your own milk), it ensured that cheques were waiting next time. I liked Smedley, particularly when he told our paranoid fellow resident that the best way to keep milk safe was to get a cow, lock it in his room and just get the milk when he needed it.
Within the library there were private study zones, which were basically desks surrounded by small, two-foot barriers, so once your head was down you couldn’t see anyone else and they could not see you. I preferred these as places to study because I have always loved the opportunity to people watch. (‘People watching’ is a much more appealing phrase than ‘looking at people’, which sounds sinister and wrong, but is basically the same thing.)
On this particular day I raised my head for a stretch and locked eyes with a girl sitting a few desks away in front. She then stood up whilst messing with some books and looked at me again. She had a mass of dark brown hair that had the kind of curls you only saw in the 1980s – no era in history has ever combined hair volume, curls and length as that decade did. What made this girl even more attractive was the fact that she had almost tamed the hairy mass with the aid of a scarf wrapped around the crown of her head. In effect, it was like trying to control the sea with a handkerchief – there was just too much of it.
She was wearing a loose, white shirt; faded stone-washed jeans; and ankle-length white Reebok trainers. From what I could see of her face, she had olive skin and was beautiful. I say ‘from what I could see’, because most of her face was hidden behind a huge pair of glasses, similar to the type that Christopher Biggins wore, but without the brightly coloured frames that he preferred. Instead, hers were a light tan colour which, from a distance, made it difficult to know where her glasses ended and she began. She could not have looked more eighties without being a member of Bucks Fizz.
For my part, I was wearing my usual attire of narrow tracksuit bottoms and a pastel-coloured, blue Adidas sweat shirt. I thought I looked cool but on reflection I looked like a children’s TV presenter who had just nipped out for a jog.
What struck me was that she held my stare. Normally you catch a girl’s eye and, after a fleeting fraction of a second, she looks away or calls the police. Not this girl – she just looked back at me. Had she been a bloke, I might have seen this as a classic ‘Who are you looking at?’ moment. But, instead, she went beyond just looking into my eyes to lowering the glasses down the bridge of her nose and peering at me for a few seconds before, with a dismissive chuckle, walking away to return some books to the shelves.
I sat there dumbfounded. Not only was I impressed that she was able to slide those huge glasses down her nose without allowing the momentum of doing so to tip her over; I was blown away because I had only seen the ‘peering seductively over the glasses’ move in films that involved a boss and his secretary.
It was the single most sexy thing I had ever seen in my life.
For an hour I did nothing. Part of this was being cool, the kind of cool you are when you’re 21 and you think things like this will always happen (if a woman was to pull the ‘peering seductively over the glasses’ move on any man over 40 he would be over in a shot if, of course, he hadn’t suffered a heart attack from the excitement of it all). So I played it cool, in part because I thought that was what you were expected to do when a girl gave you that
look, and also because I didn’t want to embarrass myself.
I had seen the sexiest thing ever, and I was wearing tight tracksuit bottoms. Even with the confidence of youth, I didn’t think it would be appropriate to make the first approach with my intentions too apparent.
After an hour or so, and with a few furtive glances away from the books – which reassured me that there was still some interest – I approached the study area where she was sitting. She raised her head from her notes and looked at me once again by peering over her glasses. Luckily, the study booth walls and mass of books in front of her hid my initial reaction to the look, and I made a mental note that tracksuit bottoms should never be worn when trying to chat a girl up.
Me:
‘I’ll be back in a minute and we can go for a coffee.’
Her:
‘What makes you think I want to go for a coffee with you?’
Me:
‘Because you do.’
Her:
‘Do I?’
Me:
‘Yep.’
I walked away and didn’t return for nearly 45 minutes. Then I took her for coffee.
BOOM! If anyone is reading this in disbelief, I can assure you that this moment only happened once in my life. This was my Top Gun moment but, believe me, there have been many other times when I have crashed and burnt.
When you see someone who is so far out of your league, why not try something straight out of the how-to-be-cool guide book? Confidence with the opposite sex is often tainted by fear of rejection, but if you expect rejection there is not too much to lose. That is my theory as to why so many beautiful women end up with ugly men: they were the only ones who took the chance. The rest of us stand there ogling but never acting, whereas Mr Ugly thinks, ‘I may as well get told to take a hike by a good-looking woman than by an ugly one.’ So as they are the only ones providing these beauties with options, they win. Love is like the lottery: you’ve got to be in it to win it, even if you are ugly.