The Ball, the wall and me...
I'm originally from Newcastle in the north-east of England and come from a working class family. I still feel working class although I'm not in tough economic circumstances. Some things you just feel in your guts. I was born in the early 1960's and baptised a Catholic, sent to a Catholic school, taught by a mixture of teachers including some nuns. School days were strict and life at home could be both fraught and happy. Kind of an up and down, in and out sort of childhood. I guess life was hard for my parents too and they would often get into severe domestic rows. Some time ago I wrote a song with these lyrics about that time. The song is called...
Playing Out At Teatime
I let the door go bang behind me,
weaved swiftly up the street,
took a 40 yard dash from me beans and mash
with the ball still at my feet
It's cold, it's wet, but I'm playing out in the lane,
back of Jackie's shop.
With a black and white ball
and a 20 foot wall I've got the team to beat the drop.
"There's too much tomato on me burger,
you stupid cunt, you lousy twat!"*
It stuck, it's true, to the wall, like glue,
then did a back-flip to the mat.
It's like being at the pictures for they never hear me scream,
and I'm not tall enough
when I stand up
to leave a shadow on the screen.
I'm sure it's quiet in the house now
but I think I'll wait and see,
I've got Johnstone, Cruyff and Charlie George,
the ball,
the wall
and me.
To any young people looking in, the names in the penultimate line refer to footballers (soccer players) of the late-sixties, early 1970's. This is a teeny glimpse at life in Byker, Newcastle at that time...and a little boy's means of coping.