by Carl Fogarty
We were given all the shitty jobs, literally. As well as taking a few patients out for walks and exercise, we also had to take them to the toilet and bath them. We realised that one particular guy needed a lot of help which obviously led to an argument.
‘I’m not taking his pants down,’ Andy said.
‘Well, I’m not bloody well going anywhere near him,’ I argued.
But I drew the short straw and undressed him before he sat on the toilet. What we didn’t realise was that he didn’t know that he had to lift the toilet seat. So he sat on the lid and, before we knew it, there was shit everywhere. We were splitting our sides laughing, but we had to get him back to the ward.
‘I’m not wiping the mess,’ said Andy.
‘Well there’s no way I’m going to do it,’ I argued.
In the end, we both pulled his pants back up, without cleaning him, and it went all over his back and his clothes. When we had calmed down enough, we returned him to the nurse, still stinking the place out.
Another of the patients never spoke, but you could tell when he was pissed off because he grumbled and muttered loudly. When it was our turn to bath him, we soon cottoned on that his level of grumbling rose when he was splashed with water. So, neither of us wanted to scrub him and he didn’t get much of a wash. Then came the problem of drying him, as he wasn’t capable of doing it himself. His shoulders and legs were no problem, but we weren’t keen on towelling his bollocks. So we devised a method with Andy holding one end of the towel and me holding the other, rubbing it between his legs as if we were sawing down a tree. We must have been a bit rough, though, because his grumbling was deafening. The noise attracted the attention of a nurse who suddenly burst in. She was furious when she discovered friction burns in a particularly sensitive part of his body.
It was hilarious at the time, and still quite funny looking back, but typical of the cruel streak that I’ve still got. And, as the week went on, we became quite skilled with these patients. Not at looking after them, but at winding them up! As well as the grumbler, there was a woman who used to scratch her wrists so hard that she needed bandages for the wounds. Then there was a man who would swear violently at the slightest thing. And, finally, one of the inmates would just slap the nearest person when provoked. So, if you lined them up in the right order, it produced a spectacular chain reaction – like a line of dominoes toppling over.
Andy lit the fuse by slapping the slapper round the back of his neck. He turned round and slapped the swearer. ‘You fucking bastard, you fucking bastard,’ he shouted, which upset the grumbler no end. And that made the woman scratch her wrists furiously. All the time we were almost pissing ourselves laughing.
Part of their exercise routine was in a kind of bouncy castle. But, when we put them in the middle of the room, they just sat down and refused to bounce around. So we jumped around the edges, which made them clatter into each other – with predictable results. Slap. ‘You fucking bastard.’ Grumble, grumble. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The frightening thing is that, three years later, someone told me that I had passed the course!
One year on and Andy was dead – the first person that I knew really well to be killed in a bike accident. I had been the one who actually got him involved in motorbikes, as he used to ride on the fields behind my house. He was very frightened the first time he sat on a bike, but soon became quite quick. Then, when we left school, we drifted apart. He lived on one side of Blackburn and I lived on the other. In June 1982, the year after we left school, he was riding with a pillion passenger during a lunch break as a trainee mechanic. The bike ran in the back of a van carrying eggs. Andy’s passenger was also badly injured. I didn’t even find out until a week after it happened. At the age of 17, death didn’t mean much to me and I didn’t even attend the funeral. It didn’t really sink in for a year or two, when it suddenly hit me that my best mate throughout my time at school was dead.
On my last day at Darwen Vale, I turned up in my school uniform, but all my mates were in their normal clothes. I had a Harrington jacket, with a tartan lining, so I turned it inside out to show that I was a rebel as well. Nobody was going to learn anything on their last day so we just roamed around, disturbing other classes and trying to cause trouble. The headmaster, Mr Strafford, tried to chase us off the premises and my last contact with a teacher was telling him to fuck off. So much for an education.
I left school, in 1981, having never sat a single exam. I had sneaked through a back door of the system and the whole education thing just passed me by. It was amazing how it had been allowed to happen. And it was wrong. At the time, it seemed brilliant that I got away with doing so little but, looking back, I wish my mum and dad had made more of an effort. Dad was always late home from work and would then start messing with his bikes in the garage. Mum was never strict enough with me, even with little things like checking if I had brushed my teeth. She had lost a baby girl, who was stillborn a couple of years before I arrived. I didn’t find out until I was 10 years old and it wasn’t something that was often talked about. Maybe it caused her to spoil me, and my sister Georgina, a bit.
Whatever the reasons, they didn’t push me to get involved with anything, inside or outside school. I would have kicked, screamed and cried if they had made me go to the cubs, or for extra football training or for swimming lessons, but I would probably have enjoyed it in the long run. Maybe it’s because I was left to my own devices as a kid that I pushed myself so hard later on in life. When you are older, you realise when you’ve got the opportunity to do something with your life. Sometimes it’s too late and the chance has passed. Luckily, when I realised that I had a talent for riding bikes, I still had time to be successful at it. But all the way through school I was quite happy lying in front of the fire watching Scooby Doo or Grange Hill on the telly, or getting into mischief with my mates.
At first that mischief was all fairly harmless teenage stuff, like pinching apples and pears from the garden of a grumpy old git who lived quite close by. On one occasion, he caught me and two other lads red-handed, marched us back into his house and rang the police. It was a complete over-reaction but they turned up and took our details. It was no big deal for me, but one of the others was about three years younger and, when the copper asked for his date of birth, he broke down in tears because it was his birthday. ‘Don’t lock me up, I’m supposed to be going out with my mum and dad tonight,’ he blubbed. We were also crying – with laughter, until the policeman said he would be visiting our parents the next day. Stupidly, I believed him and spilled the beans to mum and dad that night. It earned me a few days in my room although, of course, the copper never turned up.
That punishment must not have made much of an impression on me though, because a few weeks later we were in deeper trouble. The day started off in all innocence – four 14-year-olds cycling into town with nothing much more in mind than to kill time in the summer holidays. I’m not even sure whether anyone actually made a conscious decision to go stealing. But, in any case, we tied our bikes up and headed for the big newsagents, Lavell’s.
There was no big plan of action, no look-outs or decoys. We just wandered around the store filling our pockets with pens, lollies, sweets, a torch and some batteries. Then we scarpered back to the bikes and started pedalling furiously back in the direction of home. We had got away with it. ‘Let’s stop and have a look at what we’ve nicked,’ I shouted to the others.
Me and my big mouth! On the outskirts of the shopping centre we were sifting through our haul when a woman strolled casually up. ‘That’s a lot of stuff you’ve bought there, lads,’ she said. ‘Have you got receipts for it all?’
Just our luck. We had been rumbled by an off-duty store detective, who worked for Boots. ‘I think you had all better come with me,’ she said.
Not bloody likely.
We made a dash for it and I managed to wriggle out of her grasp, but one of the lads was collared. As the store detective marched him off to the polic
e station, it was obvious that he would grass us up. So me and a lad called Les McDermott rode as fast as our legs would pedal. The direction was not important, as long as it was out of Blackburn and away from home.
We did not pause for breath until we were in the Mellor area, near to where I live now, about three miles away. ‘I’m not going home, no way. I will be in for a huge bollocking. I’m going to run away,’ I told Les.
It seemed as though there was no other option. It was at this point that we started thinking like desperados. It had been a warm summer’s day but the evening was closing in and it was starting to get chilly – and we were starving.
We spotted a small general store near to the Fieldings Arms pub and entered, pretending to be buying some sweets. But, by now, we were a couple of artful dodgers and, while I bought the sweets, Les sneaked away with the cheese and bread, and a newspaper to discover whether our crime had made headline news.
The next move was to find somewhere to sleep for the night. So we cycled a bit further into the countryside and through a tiny village called Balderstone, in a pretty well-to-do farming area. Just before the lane ended, in a farmyard near to the river, we spotted a tree house at the bottom of a huge field. I remember the exact tree to this day. The tree house was impressive with a proper roof but, after hiding the bikes and climbing up, we discovered the floor sloped badly. It would have to do, though. Having tucked into the food, which was impossible to eat because it was so dry, we tried to catch some sleep. But the temperature was falling rapidly and, even though we wrapped ourselves up in the newspaper, it was too cold to sleep. And, to add to the discomfort of the sloping floor, the noises of the countryside gave me the creeps. I could not have slept for more than a couple of hours all night.
By daylight, I was really thirsty and heard a milk float stopping further down the lane. So, adding to the growing list of crimes, we nicked a couple of pints and climbed back up the tree. We were starving again and absolutely filthy. It didn’t take too long to realise that the outlook was pretty bleak, so we decided to head for home with our tails between our legs. To cap it all, I had a puncture a mile or so away from my house, and had to stop off at a phone box and ring my mum. ‘Carl, is that you, love?’ she answered. ‘Where are you? We’ve been out of our minds with worry.’
I was lost for words and broke down crying and, when mum turned up in the car a couple of minutes later, she was in tears and couldn’t stop hugging me. The police had been in touch and told mum and dad about the theft. They had been up all night, ringing round hospitals. Mind you, my dad couldn’t have been all that bothered because he had gone to work as normal that day. Mum rang him to say that I was safe and well. So, while I was having a bath and restoring some feeling to my fingers and toes, dad marched in with a face like thunder. ‘You’re in so much trouble, boy,’ he snarled. I knew I was in no physical danger, as dad never once hit us. But, even so, he could be pretty scary when he wanted to be.
We were forced to attend the police station that night, where I got away with a stern lecture before dad grounded me for ages. My only other scrapes with the law, apart from motoring offences in later life, were all bike-related. Some of the neighbours would ring the police if a few of us were hanging around outside their houses on our mopeds. I think they found us a bit menacing.
In many ways, it’s quite fortunate that I didn’t go off the rails completely because, for as long as I can remember, I was pretty much left to do as I pleased. The same applied to our pets. When we lived in Feniscowles, we had a beautiful Alsatian dog called Sheba, who lived in a world of her own, and was allowed to wander off whenever and wherever she wanted. Before too long, she roamed off and was never seen again.
Her replacement was my favourite pet, another Alsatian called Rebel, who was named after the dog in the Champion The Wonder Horse telly series. He was a typical man’s best friend who used to go everywhere with me and do anything I wanted him to. He was very obedient where people and kids were concerned – but loved to kill other animals. I’ve always been an animal lover, but I hated cats. And I had that warped sense of humour of a typical teenager.
Behind our garden there was a poultry farm, so cats ventured into the garden quite regularly. As soon as I saw one, I would let Rebel out. Eight times out of 10 he would catch them straight away but, if the cat escaped up a tree, I threw stones or shot at it with my 177 airgun, which I had for hunting rabbits. When the cats tried to run away, Rebel would grab them and shake them so hard that they were dead within seconds. It sounds horrible, looking back, but it seemed perfectly normal at the time.
We also had another dog, a fat little scavenging mongrel called Trixie. She thought she was the boss and started all the trouble, only for Rebel to bail her out when the going got tough. On one occasion, Trixie squeezed through a gap in the fence of a pen, which contained a few sheep and two big, mean geese.
The geese fancied their chances against Trixie, until Rebel jumped over the fence and tore one of the geese to pieces. I got him out as quickly as possible and ran back home, acting all innocent. Then the phone went and the owner of the pen wanted £20 from my dad for his dead goose. Yet another bollocking – and we didn’t even get to cook the goose!
Rebel loved our midnight poaching expeditions to the reservoir and would sit loyally next to me for hours on end while I fished for trout with little fluorescent floats. One night, the peace and quiet was shattered when a warden pulled up and scanned the banks with his searchlight. I grabbed Rebel and tried to sit perfectly still, hoping he would not spot us. It took me a while to realise that the lights had cast a shadow of a young boy and his dog, 20 times their normal size, on the wall next to us. We fled down the steep banking, again thinking I had given the warden the slip because I was out of the light’s beam. Unfortunately, though, I was still carrying my rod and the fluorescent float was trailing behind, allowing him to keep track of all my movements. So I ditched the rod, sneaked back home and, for once, got away with it.
Our house opened up onto acres of spare land, so the dogs often slipped away on their own. Many a time dad would come across them on his way back from work. Trixie had usually nicked something like a loaf of bread while Rebel brought up the rear, dutifully watching her back. Nobody seemed to complain that the dogs knocked around on their own, although nowadays a dog warden would probably pick them up. But it did mean that Rebel was free to attack any of the chickens or turkeys that escaped from the poultry farm. They were easy meat for Rebel, so the farmer bought two Dobermanns to protect his livestock. That was just a new challenge and Rebel used to take them both on, usually coming out on top.
We were inseparable for around 10 years, until I noticed that he wasn’t his normal self in those fights with the farmer’s dogs. Within six months, his back end went and he developed heart problems. When the vet came round, I knew it was the end and he injected Rebel as I held him in my arms. It was probably the most upset I have ever been at losing something dear.
It was around this time that I was learning to survive with girls. The one good thing about having a younger sister was her friends. Even though I was at a different school to Georgina, I used to catch the same bus home with her mates. As a teenager, I was very shy around girls and would sooner torment them than talk to them. I was interested in them, but much more interested in riding my bikes, and probably a bit of a late developer when it came to chasing them. The last thing I would do, if I fancied a girl, would be to approach her.
Georgina’s birthday was one day after mine, on 2 July, so we often had joint parties like the one at Holy Souls youth club near home for my 16th. All Georgina’s friends were there, and it turned out to be the sort of night that every teenage boy dreams of, when birds are coming at you from all angles. I snogged several, although only one, Christine Alsop, actually meant anything at the time.
First in line was a right pest called Jane McGarry. She was a good few years younger than me and the granddaughter of a guy called Tommy Ball, who had
built up a massive shoe empire by selling seconds from a warehouse in Blackburn. She had always wanted to go out with me because I was a few years older, but I didn’t really pay her much attention. I only kissed her at that party to shut her up, as she was crying her eyes out because she knew I fancied someone else. By the time she was 16, she was absolutely stunning. I suppose I went out with her on and off for a while after that party, but it was always more off than on, as we always seemed to end up fighting. It was great to be seen with her, though, because her clothes didn’t leave much to the imagination.
Ironically, Jane was to make headlines in her own right later on in life. Towards the end of 1993 she fell for a dangerous conman called Paul Bint, who had been jailed several times for offences which included pretending to be a doctor and even operating on a man’s stab wound. Jane, who was by then called Griffiths, went to the News of the World with her story of how she blew his cover to the police. The last time I heard of her, she was in the newspapers again, this time the subject of an undercover expose!
Next up at the birthday party was a girl called Michaela Bond who would, many years later, become my wife. She had met my sister at a fashion parade and was a year older than Georgina. She lived in Mellor and had started to visit our house more and more. At that time, it kind of registered with me that she was okay, but I was still at a stage when I would rather annoy her than do anything else. I liked to pin her down on the floor and squirt Fairy Liquid in her eyes, or chuck her shoes into the stream when she was in our tree house.
If she stayed over with Georgina, I would bang on the ceiling with a snooker cue to make sure they couldn’t get to sleep. Then, when they came downstairs to shut me up, I would be hiding under the stairs and scare them half to death. I thought Michaela looked like Rory the Lion in the kids’ programme, Animal Kwackers, and always greeted her with the show’s catchphrase, ‘Rory, Rory, tell us a story.’ Anyway, at that party, I became the first boy she had ever kissed. It lasted all of 15 seconds before she ran off because her dad was picking her up.