Oh What Fun We Had

Surely I recognised that big-nosed, clever-looking bloke from somewhere?  Skulking around the fiction section in Waterstones Piccadilly this Monday, he looked so naggingly familiar it seemed rude to ignore him, but “haven’t we met?” sounded like the cheesiest chat up line going.  Luckily he came over –

“It’s not Josh, is it?  Do you remember me from school?”

Of course! It was my old half-mate X, the nice Anglo-Turkish guy from my old North London comprehensive.  He’d lost the hair on his head, but he was obviously the same person – and judging by his look, he was now obviously gay (how could I have missed it back then?).  A quiet, precociously mature bloke, we used to chat about books at lunchtime (funnily enough girls never seemed to crop up), but once I discovered puff, bad clothes and clubbing at 16 I let our friendship slacken like the nob I (briefly) was.  It was great to see him, so I was pleased when he suggested having a coffee to talk about “happy days” at school.

The phrase happy days gave me a start though.  Every time I walk past my old school (it’s near my flat) I feel like shaking my fist at it.  An ugly lump cobbled together from grime-smeared brick, graph paper glass and high railings smeared with anti-climb paint, it struck me back then as an open prison full of boredom, restriction and casual violence.  During those interminable school years, I counted the days until I could leave the classroom and my greasy, pustulating teenage body behind and live on my own terms.  I’ve never looked back since.

Talking to X, though, I saw things differently.  In retrospect, I learnt a fair bit and actually had some pretty good times sandwiched in between the fights, tedium and detention.  And despite being a generally homophobic hellhole back then, we realised looking back how many of our classmates probably batted for our team.

Our class bully, who used to treat the class tabletops as a catwalk for “modelling” the school blazer? The mousy bloke who actually made the national newspapers with his precocious talent for making jam?  The tiny guy who bleached his hair (to look like a Papa Don’t Preach era Madonna) so many times it fell out?  If these people haven’t turned out gay, then I’m Stephanie Beacham.

And then there were X and me.  As a template “sensitive misfit” I should have guessed X was a fellow gayer, but I was still too naïve.  As for me, X said I was “too aggressive to be what I thought gay meant” – and it’s true I was a bit of a snappy little terrier back then.  What a wasted opportunity for us both!  Instead of walking round Parliament Hill Fields discussing Orwell, we could have been learning to snog.

“Well there’s nothing like making up for lost time” smiled X.  To my shock, I actually blushed (haven’t done that for decades).  Then I thought – he’s got a point there.  The thought of copping off with the one person I might have done at school felt so deliciously wrong I couldn’t resist (and he is kind of attractive).  After a non-committal goodbye cheek kiss, we agreed to meet up for a date this coming Thursday (and no, we’re not going in our old uniforms). I’m quite excited – even if nothing comes of it, at least meeting X has got rid of my school demolition fantasies.

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