One Chance

by Paul Potts

I made good progress with my singing and was selected to represent the class at local music competitions. I performed with some success at Staple Hill Eisteddfod, Longwell Green Festival, and Kingswood, as well as taking part once or twice at the Bristol Eisteddfod, which was seen as the pinnacle of local competition. These competitions were cold, calculated affairs, and I didn’t always enjoy them. The audience was usually made up of your competitors and their families, and there was a panel of three people who would listen and tell you what they thought. It was sterile and difficult, not to mention nerve inducing.

  Mum would always come with me to the competitions to give me her support, and often Jane and Tony would come, too. Tony also tried a few competitions but found nerves difficult to deal with. Dad was rarely available to watch me perform, although he would come when he could. He made a point of watching me at the prize-giving concerts that followed the competitions. He would make up for missing these competitions in years to come.

  I struggled to get anywhere at the Bristol Eisteddfod, usually scoring enough to get honours, but the best I ever did was to finish third. I generally did better at Staple Hill, where I won a couple of medals. At one eisteddfod there, I caught the eye of the master of choristers for the Bristol Cathedral, who told my mum and me that he was very keen to have me in the choir.

  To be a chorister at Bristol Cathedral you had to go to the cathedral school. In fact, I had taken the entrance examination for the chorister’s scholarship the year before, but it required me to go into secondary school a year early. I did reasonably well in all subjects, particularly English (as reflected from my advanced reading comprehension), but was not quite good enough at mathematics, so I wasn’t selected. I was offered the opportunity to progress if my parents paid my fees, but since we didn’t have the money for this, it was not to be. The master of choristers expressed his disappointment that I would be unable to join. I was disappointed, too. Singing at your local cathedral was the pinnacle for any chorister.

  As much as I enjoyed singing, I hated competing. The competitive element made me feel terrible. Usually, I was fine until it was my turn to be called forward. At these sorts of events, you didn’t have a waiting room. Instead, you were just called from the audience, watching every other singer before and after your own performance.

  Everyone else sounded pitch perfect to me. I only had to waver a little to end up finishing last, and I always saw this as inevitable. I generally did better in the duet classes of the competition, where I usually competed with a boy my age named Craig. Craig was from a fairly well-to-do background and spoke and sang proper English, whereas my accent was always far more Bristolian. He would usually come away with a brace of trophies and medals, whereas despite being told by others that I was a better singer, I would come away empty-handed except for my duet with him.

  Nerves often got the better of me. This was less of an issue at Staple Hill, which took place in the Methodist church. The large Victorian-style building had good acoustics, and was always pretty full during competitions. It had two levels, stalls, and a balcony, so it was not unlike a small theatre. My problem was when I was performing at smaller venues with fewer people attending, like at Longwell Green. I regularly failed to get even a merit there. I’d become nervous, and as a result my mind would go blank: I would forget the words in the middle of a song, even though I knew it backwards.

  It was as if I feared singing to empty seats, since you cannot get feedback if no one is there. Singing was something I knew I was pretty good at, and as other parts of my life were less than ideal, I looked for approval. When I couldn’t feel that approval, it left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. Under that pressure, I collapsed and my performance suffered.

  It was around this time that I embraced classical music in a big way. This was largely thanks to watching the Steven Spielberg film ET. There was something about the music in the movie, alongside the scenes featuring a boy who wasn’t fully accepted by his peers, that struck a chord, if you’ll excuse the pun. I loved the feeling of the music washing over me, and I managed to get hold of an LP vinyl record of the London Symphony Orchestra playing the highlights of the soundtracks from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Star Wars, and ET, all written by John Williams.

  Listening to the record filled me with joy—so much so that I wanted to participate in the music, not just listen to it. Making sure no one could see me, I grabbed one of my mum’s knitting needles and imagined it was a conductor’s baton. This made me feel powerful, and I wanted to feel the emotion from the music more and more.

  For my twelfth birthday, Mum and Dad bought me an inexpensive personal stereo. I got hold of some cassette tapes, and while one or two of them were pop, most of them were classical. I would invariably listen to them at full volume and would often be asked on the bus, “Would you mind turning your violins down, please?” This would usually get a few giggles from those around me.

  I particularly enjoyed listening to the most dramatic music from classical composers. My favourites were pieces like Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, Vaughan William’s A London Symphony, and Dvorak’s Symphony for Cello. Most of these were with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra with Hebert von Karajan conducting.

  My favourite orchestral piece was (and still is) Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6, the Pathétique. Its sadness grabbed hold of my heart and wrenched it so hard it wouldn’t let go. I still remember the first time I ever listened to it. I was walking down Fishponds Road close to home, feeling the first movement reach into my psyche and resound with all the sadness I felt in life. It seemed to end with just the woodwind repeating the leitmotif that had been started by the strings. It ended calmly and quietly. I felt myself sigh with satisfaction and then . . . BOOOOM!!!! The full orchestra came in fortissimo. It was like a gun had gone off and I felt myself jump into the air, only just managing to land on my feet. Worse still, I had an audience. I was by a bus stop, and a double-decker bus had stopped right by me. There were some very wide eyes and some titters of laughter at the sight of me leaping into the air.

  But that is what music did for me. It involved me heart and soul, and I got lost in it.

  One event that happened while I was a chorister at Christ Church would affect me for many years to come. It was late May 1985, and I had just left choir practise. It was a little later than usual, and I would have to hurry to get to Baldwin Street to catch the bus, or I would be stuck waiting for over an hour for the next one.

  Outside, the sky was fairly dark, although there was still some light left. It was also drizzling and damp; visibility was not good at all. I checked my watch; I would have to be quick, especially as the bus often left a few minutes early. I crossed Broad Street and sprinted down High Street, knowing that I only had a few minutes to cover nearly half a mile, and with a major road to navigate. However, I wasn’t to make it that far. One minute I was running hard, but not out of breath. The next minute I was lying on the road in agony.

  On High Street was one of the few original medieval buildings left from the bombing of the area during the Second World War, a half-timbered house from the sixteenth century. Work had been undertaken on the building, and scaffolding took up the vast majority of the pavement. I thought nothing of this, and ran between two pillars. There was no lighting on the scaffolding at all. As a result, I had no chance of seeing that the last section protruded diagonally across my path. I struck my head and mouth on the scaffolding, bleeding quite badly from the forehead.

  The deputy choirmaster, Mr. Moon, had just left the church, and having seen the accident, ran over to help. I did my best not to show it, but I was in agony. Mr. Moon put me in his car and drove me to Bristol Royal Infirmary. I can only imagine how much of a mess I made in his car. There were two distinct injuries: I had a four-inch cut on the left side of my forehead that required fifteen stitches and left me looking like Frankenstein’s monster. But the worst injury long term was to my mouth. I had hit the scaffolding with such force that my two front teeth were p
ushed into my gums and behind my nose, between my soft palate and nasal cavity. The resulting blood and pain were horrendous. Mr. Moon called home and waited for my mum to get to the hospital.

  The doctor was able to stitch me up, but there was nothing he could do about my teeth, apart from referring me to Bristol Dental Hospital the following day. The dentist there told me there was little even they could do, as the teeth would most likely return to position by themselves, though he didn’t know whether the teeth would actually survive.

  Over the next few weeks, the teeth did settle back into their correct position as the dentist suggested they might. All was not well, however. I had the most agonizing pain I’d ever experienced in my life, and the painkillers didn’t deal with that. The nerves in my middle teeth were badly damaged and my teeth were killing themselves off. One of them—the same one I had hit on the subway wall when cycling on Alex’s sister’s bike—needed a full crown.

  The cost of the crown would have been too expensive, but fortunately I was under the care of the emergency team at the dental hospital. On top of which, I was being treated by some of the prettiest female dental students the University of Bristol had to offer, so the accident had its compensations! I learned how to sit quietly for hours in the dental chair without complaining. I had to, as I wound up spending three hours in the chair every week for six months. Not only that, but local anaesthetic didn’t affect me, and I could usually feel everything they were doing. I was offered free orthodontic treatment to deal with the fact that my bottom teeth were jumbled up and untidy, but to my eventual detriment, I declined due to the amount of time I was already spending in the chair.

  I ended up having a long career as a chorister, and Christ Church became a second home for me. When we moved to Stoke Gifford on the edge of Bristol as part of my dad’s job, getting to church got more complicated. John became a bit of a bad influence, and we skived off a few choir practises. It wasn’t until 1987 that motions started to be made for me to leave Christ Church choir. I was a pensioner in chorister terms, as most boy trebles have their voices go funny around fourteen or fifteen. Here I was, at seventeen, still singing boy treble.

  Some of my supporters in the church had raised a concern that by continuing to sing treble, my adult voice might be affected. I was given £50 in book tokens and thanked for my seven-plus years of service. I didn’t want to leave. While I understood they were trying to act in my best interests, I felt disappointed. I didn’t yet know what my adult voice would be like and was worried that I was leaving the professional world of singing behind me, perhaps forever.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Secondary School Life

  “SO WHERE are you going to secondary school, then, Potts?”

  It was towards the end of my final year at primary school, and the playground bullies were taking an unexpected interest in my continued education.

  “Whitefield,” I replied, naming one of the local Fishponds secondary schools.

  “Well, what do you know?” The bully rubbed his hands with glee. “I’m going there, too. Guess I’ll be able to help you settle in, introduce you to some of the other pupils,” he continued with a cackle. “See you after the summer holidays, then.”

  I watched the bully and his friends wander off, chuckling to themselves at the thought that they’d be able to continue tormenting me. I had a little chuckle to myself, too, as I watched them go. What they didn’t know was that I wasn’t going to Whitefield at all. Instead, like my siblings, I had a place at St. Mary Redcliffe and Temple School in central Bristol, and the opportunity of a fresh start.

  St. Mary Redcliffe was a partially voluntary funded church school, thought of locally as almost being a public school (the American equivalent of British public school is private school). Its academic reputation was high, and places there were highly sought after. In order to attend, you and your parents had to be baptised and go to church regularly: a document attesting to your regular church attendance had to be signed by your parish vicar or priest. Fortunately, my father was churchwarden at All Saints, so this was easily achieved.

  My older brother, John, was already in the third year at St. Mary Redcliffe School and was one of the most popular children there. He knew how to play the social game at school and keep the bossiest personalities of the playground happy. On one occasion, John found a dead fox on the streets of Fishponds while doing his newspaper round, and ran home to get a bread knife to cut its tail off. He had various offers for the severed tail and eventually sold it to the person who offered the lowest amount. This might sound stupid, but the lowest offer came from one of the main kids in the third year. From that point on, he was in with the uppermost gang at school.

  John knew how to get along at school in a way I did not. I saw my problems as my own, and I felt that if I got John to interfere, it might just make things worse for him. I had come through seven years of not knowing how to navigate the social currents, with only one “friend” who couldn’t be relied on, so my interpersonal skills were limited, to say the least. So although I had the opportunity for a fresh start at secondary school, I didn’t know how to take it.

  I was bullied sporadically in my first two years at Redcliffe. In all honesty, I have to accept some responsibility for the reaction of my peers. I tried to absorb the teasing and attacks, but this wasn’t always the best thing to do. I just bottled everything up until the inevitable explosion came. This was something the children at primary school were familiar with. I was timid most of the time, but capable of being one of the strongest children physically, if I had a paddy (a fit of anger); this was how one or two children described my explosions of temper, leading to them call me “Paddy Potts.”

  My biggest problem was thinking that admitting I was in the wrong, or being seen as being in the wrong, was a direct attack on me. I argued with the children who were teasing me, often reacting first and asking questions later. My house teacher, Mr. Pullin, took me aside and suggested I deal with it in a different way. He told me to ignore the situation; that it would go away if I did.

  Once again, this was the mantra from the teachers and my parents. I tried very hard to follow their suggestions but was not always successful. I’d take it for so long, and then blow my top. I can see now how this was entertaining for those round me, especially those who were pushing my buttons. But at the time it was very difficult for me to deal with. I wanted to be liked, but I realized at the very start of my time at Redcliffe that it was very unlikely to happen.

  ***

  Physical education should have been one of the best classes for me. I was one of the fastest runners in school, so I was picked to represent the school at cross-country running, a skill I kept up into my twenties. I would later represent my city and county at cross-country events round the country.

  Games afternoons took place on Brislington School’s playing fields. We would make our way on the coach to Brislington, an area on the edge of Bristol, and get changed into our red-and-black rugby tops and striped socks. We would start with a cross-country run that was generally completely flat, and then have a twenty-minute rugby match. Rugby was the school’s main sport for boys; hockey was the main sport for girls.

  I enjoyed the running and was always one of the first five to finish, but I hated the rugby. All through school it was a license to a beating. Whenever the ball was thrown at me, I would catch it and suddenly have eighteen boys piling on me in what was meant to be a ruck (huddle) of players attempting to get hold of the ball; it was actually a circle with me in the middle being repeatedly punched in the stomach, the ball having long been dropped on the ground. This was a regular occurrence throughout the first few years at Redcliffe, and I dreaded the games. I always hoped the rugby pitches (fields) would be waterlogged, meaning we would do a longer cross-country run instead.

  I also hated the communal parts of sport such as changing and showering, as this was when the bullying was worst. With no adult supervision, the gang mentality was at its strongest.
I would try to wait until the other boys had showered before having mine, and this was sometimes possible because PE was a double period before our break. Yet I was often pushed headfirst into the shower, completely naked, and kicked as everyone had a good laugh at my expense.

  This happened so often that I got used to it. Sometimes it was “just” name calling. But sometimes I got a kicking. Sometimes a tie-flicking, often towards the groin, which as you can imagine was very painful. The tie would be flicked so hard that there was an audible “crack” as the tie flicked back. The worst thing was that the changing rooms didn’t have a corner for me to hide in. I was exposed in more ways than one.

  It was at the end of one the afternoon games sessions that I made my first real friend at Redcliffe. As usual, I didn’t want to shower with the rest of the boys, so I waited to be the last in. As a result, when I got to the car park the coaches had already left.

  There was another boy who had also missed the coach back: Nicholas. He was about the same height as me, with short black hair. Neither of us had enough money for a bus ticket to the centre of Bristol, so we were left with the daunting prospect of a four-mile walk to Temple Meads, where our bus passes were valid.

  The sports fields were close to Verrechia’s ice cream factory, which had a shop window close to the road, and Nick kindly bought me an ice cream for the long walk ahead. We started chatting, and became friends. Nick and I ended up spending quite a bit of time together after school, as we were both on the same bus route. He had the latest video games and a bike. He always shared these generously, even though I was never very good at playing computer games. I did okay at Spy Hunter, which was basic compared to today’s games, but it led the market at the time. I can still hear the sound of the cassette tape now.

  The disparity between our backgrounds was never an issue because Nick’s mother made sure he was considerate. He wound up being my longest-term and most reliable friend at Redcliffe.