Dear Fatty (26 page)

College was a bit disorganised. The degree as a three-year course was new for the staff, and they hadn’t quite sorted it out. I vividly remember the disquiet, especially from the more mature element among us. By mature, I mean about eight years older in most cases; nevertheless, there were several people at Central for whom getting there had been an ordeal. They had worked to save for it, or taken other jobs till they could get in, and they were furious that the course was such a shambles, so they formed quite a militant force and made complaints. The complaints were justified, but most of us in T80 were very young and having a ball just being in London. We weren’t that bothered about learning, we wanted to have fun, and magically have a degree by the end of it. I remember one particular exam – was it theatre history? We all filed in, sat down and turned over the question paper. I didn’t know ANY of the answers and immediately assumed it was because I was thick or had revised entirely the wrong subject (not unusual). Pretty soon it became obvious that no one could answer anything because we simply hadn’t been taught it. The grown-ups of T80 took a stand – literally – and we all followed, marching out of the exam room in revolt. It was quite handy having eloquent and assertive people to represent us, to lead the mutiny when necessary and to shake up the college, which was a bit sleepy. Further education is often the time when we formulate our political leanings and it was fantastic
to
be in such a lefty environment, listening and learning. And for the last year and a half of our course, we had Margaret Hilda Thatcher the milk snatcher as our foe, so boy didn’t
that
unite us under a common enemy. Nothing like a spitting, spouting monster to bring even the loiteringest sluggards out from the back of the cave to stand their ground. Even me.

We were required to do some twatty things during our time there. There was one exercise where we had to wrap each other in newspaper with Sellotape to form human eggs. The lights were dimmed in the studio and we were instructed to stay inside our ‘eggs’ for as long as we needed until it was time to slowly break out, reborn into an entirely different world where we had to invent a new language and find a new, utopian way to live together. You can imagine how seriously I took this. I figured outright giggling wouldn’t go down well so I opted instead for a little snooze inside my hot paper egg. When I woke up, I had no idea how long I’d been asleep, so I thought I’d better break out pretty sharpish in case they were all waiting for me, imagining I was being introspective and interesting. I pierced the paper with my finger and made a hole just big enough to peer through. In the gloaming, I could just make out that everyone else was still inside their eggs. I must have only nodded off for a few seconds. Drat. The teacher saw me peering out and gestured encouragement to give birth to myself and come out into the brave new world. I was buggered. So, very slowly, I ripped my shell open and crawled out, muttering my ‘new’ language, which I had decided would be a slowed-down, slurred version of Elvis’s ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’. So, I was shuffling across the floor, spreading like a lumpy puddle,
gurgling
, ‘Wahse – meen – saay – ooonleee – foolz – ruuuhsh – eeen –’ This went on for an eternity. I was alone in the nightmare until some other sucker finally joined me. The minute I saw Fatty pop out of hers, that was it. I couldn’t control the laughter any longer, and was eventually asked to gather myself outside. Honestly, hard-working folks were paying taxes for us to arse about like this! Of course, there was the flipside where we did serious classes which, had I bothered to concentrate, would have come in very handy later on. Voice, for instance. By the time I left I didn’t know the difference between a uvula, a vulva and a Volvo but, astonishingly, I somehow had the qualification to teach it! Phonetics would have been another good one to have had under my belt, the language of language. Phonetics would have helped me to write down accents and nuances in shorthand and replicate them later. I have needed this skill a thousand times and, stupidly, I haven’t been equipped, because back then I was too busy doing laughing to focus on anything important. How I achieved the degree at all I have no idea.

One particular exercise has returned to haunt me over and over again. In the first year, we were all instructed to go to the zoo, choose an animal, draw it, study it and bring notes back to class for further work. A trip to the zoo! For free! Hurrah! Of course, my day consisted of ice cream, gorilla impersonations, a ride on a camel and some colouring in of parrots on a kiddie drawing pad. It was a fun-packed day out, just grand, a day at London Zoo. When it came to the tutorial, I hurriedly sketched a sloth – a creature I hadn’t even visited on the day – improvising the picture using a sort of koala bear mixed with a huge slug as my starting point. I thought that even the tutor might
be
a little bit amused by my choice of the laziest creature on earth. Little did I know that these choices would dog us for three years, that it was some kind of psychological trick. In the many months that followed, I had to pretend to
be
a sloth, think like one, invent a human like one, improvise like one, make costumes for one. And why? Because apparently, I
was
a sloth. My choice indicated the animal I most identified with, supposedly. But I was mostly identifying with ice cream on the zoo day! No matter, I was labelled a sloth from that day on – even when I went to see my tutor for my final farewell tutorial, he greeted me with, ‘Ah, the sloth. Come in!’ I am NOT a sloth ... am I?

Meanwhile, life in the flat was peachy. Angie and I loved sharing, except for the not infrequent occasions she had a gentleman caller, whereby the form was that I would vacate our shared room for the night and kip on the sofa. On one of my sofa nights, I woke up suddenly to Angie screaming for help. It transpired that her beau had somehow split his foreskin doin’ the dirty, and she was useless at the merest sight of blood, never mind when it involved genitals! So there I was, half-asleep, cradling this shocked stranger’s todger in some icy water in our sink, while she called the doc. Happy days!

We had a cleaning rota and each took our turn, or not, to clean certain areas of the flat, which inevitably led to hilarious arguments. We made marks on the side of milk bottles to ensure no one was illegally slugging our precious pints, we ate huge six-day-old stale pasta soups with grated cheese on top, and quiche, and mash, and bread with butter and sugar sprinkled on top. We had big, loud, themed parties, tarts and vicars, togas, rival
drama
colleges, all sorts. We took weekend jobs chambermaiding or in the local pub or cooking for firemen to make a few bob, which we then spent on punky clothes at Camden Market. We were pathetic punks, not properly committed, just dressing up at weekends. We went to see
The Rocky Horror Show
again and again, we went to watch bands like the B52s and the Eurythmics and anyone who was on at Dingwalls if we could blag our way in. We had the most excellent tea parties with our classmates. I had a crashing crush on Rowan Atkinson, who lived nearby, and, much like David Cassidy and Peter Tork, I felt sure he would love me if only we could meet. I agonised over whether to drop a note through his door. Luckily, I lost my bottle, and didn’t put him through it, but we
did
go to see his live show and considered him a genius only hindered by a geeky sidekick I later found out to be a man called Richard Curtis.

I loved the company of my new friends. Of Gilly, who had set the flat up for us, who drove her Mini like a madwoman while cradling hot coffee in her lap, and who had a comprehensive collection of Lladro figurines which I considered to be supremely elegant and sophisticated. She was dating Malcolm, our landlord, who was the most dashing and handsome man in Chalk Farm. That was good, it was unlikely we would be evicted while that lasted. (It has now lasted about 30 years, and provided me with the dreamboat that is Sophie, my first godchild.)

Then there was Jobo, or Yoyo Knickers as I called her. What a woman. Tall and gangly and über clever. She had just returned from Kenya, from some relationship with an exciting chap, and she was like no one I had ever met. Fatty was drawn to her and they were very close by the time I started to know her. She was
an
exuberant, daring minx with a love for elaborate pranks. She would do anything for a laugh or a dare. It was too irresistible not to challenge her. She would perform her tasks with enormous panache, like, for instance, shouting out her love for strangers on the street, or pretending to be blind at the wheel of her car and asking passers-by for directions while wearing two eyepatches. Getting entirely naked driving through central London and staying so for the whole journey. Wandering about in the street below our flat with our laundry basket on her head and no trousers, and on and on with the gags. She is fearless and wild and beautiful. She was unafraid to fake fits when difficult exams were due, to tell elaborate porkies to staff in order to explain the lack of essays she submitted. She lived in a fabulous crumbling old house in swanky Chelsea and no one believed her when, late once again for lectures, she explained that the ceiling had collapsed at her house, when of course it had. She had fabulous long legs and occasionally did a bit of advertising work for Pretty Polly tights – or did she? Who knows! She
said
she did – anyway, she had a bit of cash and was always free with it. I will never forget when she noticed how hard up I was, and how embarrassing it was for me to completely run out of dosh by the end of the week. Somehow she obtained my bank details and anonymously put money into my empty account which saw me through a whole month. I didn’t know who had done it for ages, but found out later that it was she who had been so fabulously generous.

In our last year at Central, there was a student union-organised cabaret evening. We didn’t ordinarily bother with these shows at college because it seemed to us they were yet another opportunity
to
have to witness the actors showing off and loving themselves to bits. The courses were so divided. They didn’t want us there, and we didn’t want to support their ego-fest. But this time, Fatty and I were encouraged by our friends to do a sketch. By now we had been amusing ourselves for a year or so, inventing characters at home in the flat. We used to put our hated leotards on backwards, we sewed tassles onto our ladybumps and thus we launched the ‘Menopatzi Sisters’. Ta-da! We decided they were the last in a long line of an Italian circus family. They were useless acrobats who performed pathetic feats of weakness and ineptitude. It was such a simple pleasure to jump about like daft dafties for the entertainment of our chums. We improvised other characters too – Americans obsessed with spiritual wellness, and punk duo the ‘Menopause Sisters’, and lots more. Never for one second did we think these little amusements would become more than private. When our friends encouraged us to perform at the cabaret evening, we were a bit hesitant initially, we hadn’t ever done anything like this in public before and hadn’t intended to, but eventually we decided to go along in order to prevent it being yet another exclusive night where the teachers were unrepresented. We had very little nerves – what did we have to lose? The evening went well, we performed our American sketch and the Menopatzis. People seemed to laugh in all the right places. I’m extra pleased that Gary happened to be there that night because on reflection I realise that it was a seminal moment, a turning point, although, of course, I didn’t know it at the time. We hadn’t shamed ourselves and we’d had a good laugh – and frankly that’s pretty much been our yardstick ever since. I try to make her laugh, she tries to
make
me laugh, and if anyone else enjoys it too, then that’s a bonus.

I wish you could have seen us, Dad, I think you would have liked it. You certainly would have liked her. She’s dead funny, my friend Fatty.

I THINK YOU’VE
made the right decision to go blonder as you get older. It covers up the enemy grey better than brown hair like mine. I used to dye mine a really dark chocolaty brown but I noticed a couple of years ago that my hair didn’t go with my ageing face any more. I don’t know why but lighter hair suits wrinkles better, so now I am trying a lighter red colour which is OK but it means I can’t wear any more of my red clothes which I’m very fond of. I don’t expect you to do anything about this; I’m just outlining my dilemma, hair-wise. I can’t really be all that bothered with hair, to be honest. It’s just some dead
stuff
hanging off your head really, isn’t it? Shame we can’t grow something more useful like Mr Potato Head, who so generously and wisely grows cress out of his. I’d quite like to grow asparagus or daffodils, either of which would be preferable and beneficial. Instead, I’ve got these limp locks which have to be constantly fiddled with and trained to do what they’re told with, naturally, the aid of light-reflecting booster technology to get the illuminating shiny finish I deserve. That’s why I’ve kept the same style for so long; I sort of know how to do it in 13 minutes, which is 13 minutes longer than I like to devote to its care.

Anyway, anyway, anyway, I was only saying this because a particular friend of mine has blonde hair (don’t worry, it’s not you) and is exactly like all those girls you hear about who are not the brightest button on the shirt, y’know, not the sharpest
knife
in the drawer, y’know, dead thick. Anyway, anyway, anyway, she was round at my house with two of my other friends, one of whom is a redhead and one of whom is a brunette. I expect you’re thinking that I just choose all my friends from a Wella colour chart – well, I don’t. They are people I have met as I have woven my way through the tapestry of my life like a needle containing thread is pushed through an ancient kilim rug by a blind old Arab man with arthritic thumbs who should stop making rugs now because he’s so old, but he doesn’t want to, otherwise he’d have to stay at home all day listening to Jeremy Kyle making poor people hit each other when they find out they’re not Lauren’s real dad because her mum’s a slag who dun it wiv over 30 blokes without no protection on it, for God’s sake, how many more times, think about the kiddie. The blind man’s wife has it on every morning in their flat in Earls Court and he hates it, so he’d rather tip-tap his way to work with his old white stick against the railings till he gets to the old musty carpet workshop where he has a cup of jasmine tea and a suck on a hubble-bubble pipe, before he sits down cross-legged and threads a special curved needle with a strong cotton of many hues, which is in fact the thread of my life made up of hundreds of tinier threads wrapped around each other which are my many friends, who are many colours,
not
just redhead, brunette and blonde.