On the way back to school from the chip shop, Lilley decided to test our limited knowledge of sex. We were 12 years-old. Sex was what James Bond did and something they talked about, but never did, on EastEnders. It was a subject as far from my understanding as trigonometry.
Lilley was obsessed with sex. He claimed he'd had sex with a much older woman (I say much because an older woman to us could have been a 16 year-old). There were plenty of holes in his story which we gleefully exposed during a maths lesson. However, Lilley's burgeoning sex drive was developing quickly; I once had to wait for him while he had a wank in his bathroom during lunch. Eventually I left him to it and went back to school. "I'm going now..." I said. "Okay" came the groan. He was always holding his cock or getting it out to show people. On one occasion during a PE lesson he presented his penis to us all, Paul Dear spotted it and shouted "Sir! Lilley's got his tail out!" "Put it away Stuart" came the tired response from Mr Dean.
Lilley chucked his question into the ring. If Perry didn't answer Lilley would pick on me like a sadistic French teacher, his hope would be that I wouldn't know or I’d guess horribly, he could then humiliate me. Knowledge is power and all that.
"Who knows what premature ejaculation is?" Said Lilley. We both went quiet. Did either of us know? I knew what premature meant and 'eject' sounded like 'ejact' so I had some sort of answer prepared.
"It's when you cum... said Perry, "Early."
Lilley laughed, "Very good."
"Now... Neil"
Oh fuck. What was he going to ask me? What a sixty-niner was? I'd heard of the term but didn't have a clue about its terminology. I'd be known as the sixty-niner kid or something unimaginative like that. Here it came. He was sure he was going to catch me out…
"Who scored the second equaliser in the 1987 Cup final?"
Never had I, or will I ever again, shout 'Keith Houchen!' with such delight.
Monday, 28 July 2008
Monday, 21 July 2008
Last Words
The last words my Grandad said to me were: “I know what I’ve got to tell you…” Before he could tell me, the cancer pulled him back from this momentary gasp of lucidness and his words became wheezes and air.
I didn’t want to incur his legendary wrath by telling him I couldn’t hear or understand him, so I nodded along trying to look surprised and interested. He could have told me anything. It could have been the secrets of our family history, which he’d fervently declined to tell me.
It’s more likely to have been something to do with a painter, Rembrandt or Renoir, or something he’d remembered about my football team, Nottingham Forest. It could have been his counter-argument (which he’d already told me) to a particularly damning article I’d read about Churchill. It must have kept him awake all night. He had already told me I was wrong earlier in the year, but maybe he’d read or thought of something else, which could prove the historians, and me, wide of the mark. I’ll never know what he was trying to tell me. He fell asleep and that was the last communication I had with him. He died two days later.
The last meaningful words he ever said to me came after some banter with a nurse. He was trying to get out of bed and go home - he’d already tried to escape through the window a couple of days before. He rattled the sides of the bed with one of his bony legs attempting his break for freedom. He was never a man to tell what to do and since my uncle or my sister, weren’t there to calm him down, I felt helpless. A nurse with a weary face pounded in, roughly propping him back up on his bed like an oversized doll. A few weeks before he would have had her for breakfast, but today, emaciated and weak, she had the upper hand.
“Who’s this then Michael?” She said pointing to me. “Grandson” the weakened voice replied. “I think you’re better looking than him!” she replied, winking at me. Many old men would have loved this spot of contrived flirtation, but my Grandad ignored the comment. “We’re very alike” said the slightly rattled voice. “We share the same thoughts about things and if he has the life I’ve had… he’ll be happy.” With that he slumped back into the bed and fell asleep. It delighted me. At last, an outward expression of respect. He did love me.
I didn’t want to incur his legendary wrath by telling him I couldn’t hear or understand him, so I nodded along trying to look surprised and interested. He could have told me anything. It could have been the secrets of our family history, which he’d fervently declined to tell me.
It’s more likely to have been something to do with a painter, Rembrandt or Renoir, or something he’d remembered about my football team, Nottingham Forest. It could have been his counter-argument (which he’d already told me) to a particularly damning article I’d read about Churchill. It must have kept him awake all night. He had already told me I was wrong earlier in the year, but maybe he’d read or thought of something else, which could prove the historians, and me, wide of the mark. I’ll never know what he was trying to tell me. He fell asleep and that was the last communication I had with him. He died two days later.
The last meaningful words he ever said to me came after some banter with a nurse. He was trying to get out of bed and go home - he’d already tried to escape through the window a couple of days before. He rattled the sides of the bed with one of his bony legs attempting his break for freedom. He was never a man to tell what to do and since my uncle or my sister, weren’t there to calm him down, I felt helpless. A nurse with a weary face pounded in, roughly propping him back up on his bed like an oversized doll. A few weeks before he would have had her for breakfast, but today, emaciated and weak, she had the upper hand.
“Who’s this then Michael?” She said pointing to me. “Grandson” the weakened voice replied. “I think you’re better looking than him!” she replied, winking at me. Many old men would have loved this spot of contrived flirtation, but my Grandad ignored the comment. “We’re very alike” said the slightly rattled voice. “We share the same thoughts about things and if he has the life I’ve had… he’ll be happy.” With that he slumped back into the bed and fell asleep. It delighted me. At last, an outward expression of respect. He did love me.
Making A Meal Of It
In 2003, I told my grandparents I wasn't going to eat meat anymore.
My Grandad remained silent. He looked out of the window, tapping his fingers on the side of his chair. He couldn't comprehend such a thought. No meat? What's wrong with him?
My Grandma was more sympathetic but also concerned. What is he going to eat? Without meat what on earth is left? Briefly, she thought to herself and then she asked some questions.
"Can you eat potatoes Neil?"
"Yes."
"Can you eat bread?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"Can you eat chicken?"
My Grandad remained silent. He looked out of the window, tapping his fingers on the side of his chair. He couldn't comprehend such a thought. No meat? What's wrong with him?
My Grandma was more sympathetic but also concerned. What is he going to eat? Without meat what on earth is left? Briefly, she thought to herself and then she asked some questions.
"Can you eat potatoes Neil?"
"Yes."
"Can you eat bread?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"Can you eat chicken?"
Go Paint Yourself
On the face of it self-portraiture may appear to some like an exercise in ego-mania.
I can see their point if the artist painted themselves in the nude with bulging biceps and a massive appendage. That would clearly be a classic case of 'look at me aren't I macho and virile'.
At university I did actually see a life-size nude self-portrait by a fellow student, a lot of detail, and hard work, had been put into the drawing of his penis.
What did that say about him? I dread to think.
Narcissism may be the motive for some artists but for many, past and present, and including me, it's a perfect way to experiment and express some deeper angst.
Rembrandt was the master of the self-portrait. Throughout his life he painted and drew perhaps around a hundred of them. Principally he did them to practice and perfect his painting skills but they also served another purpose - a visual autobiography.
Rembrandt's early self-portraits show a man at the height of his success; in some he looks a little cocky. His later works present a man who looks poor, lonely, unloved and perhaps slipping into dementia. They're heartbreaking.
I've painted quite a few self-portraits. None of them are particularly flattering but that's not my aim. With yourself you have a ready and willing model; a chance to try some new techniques – obviously, there’s always the possibility you could end up looking like John Prescott's scrotum.
So, how do you paint a self-portrait? Every portrait artist will have a different method and I have to admit, I don’t think you can teach art, just encourage it. Anyway, a few tips…
Decide what you want to say about yourself. Are you trying to explore your identity or express something that's happened to you? Can an object in your painting be a key to understanding what you’re trying to say, or what you fear? For example, a skull can often represent mortality.
Your expression can be the key to something you’re trying to communicate to the viewer. The self-portrait you can see on this page is about anguish and frustration but the story is ambiguous. I like to keep the viewer guessing.
You don't have to be particularly talented to create a self-portrait, or indeed any kind of painting. Francis Bacon didn’t have an art background, or education, but he did it anyway and created some of the most influential paintings of the 20th century.
The best advice I can give is to get cracking, use a mirror or photograph, pens, paper and paint and just give it a go, you might surprise yourself.
I can see their point if the artist painted themselves in the nude with bulging biceps and a massive appendage. That would clearly be a classic case of 'look at me aren't I macho and virile'.
At university I did actually see a life-size nude self-portrait by a fellow student, a lot of detail, and hard work, had been put into the drawing of his penis.
What did that say about him? I dread to think.
Narcissism may be the motive for some artists but for many, past and present, and including me, it's a perfect way to experiment and express some deeper angst.
Rembrandt was the master of the self-portrait. Throughout his life he painted and drew perhaps around a hundred of them. Principally he did them to practice and perfect his painting skills but they also served another purpose - a visual autobiography.
Rembrandt's early self-portraits show a man at the height of his success; in some he looks a little cocky. His later works present a man who looks poor, lonely, unloved and perhaps slipping into dementia. They're heartbreaking.
I've painted quite a few self-portraits. None of them are particularly flattering but that's not my aim. With yourself you have a ready and willing model; a chance to try some new techniques – obviously, there’s always the possibility you could end up looking like John Prescott's scrotum.
So, how do you paint a self-portrait? Every portrait artist will have a different method and I have to admit, I don’t think you can teach art, just encourage it. Anyway, a few tips…
Decide what you want to say about yourself. Are you trying to explore your identity or express something that's happened to you? Can an object in your painting be a key to understanding what you’re trying to say, or what you fear? For example, a skull can often represent mortality.
Your expression can be the key to something you’re trying to communicate to the viewer. The self-portrait you can see on this page is about anguish and frustration but the story is ambiguous. I like to keep the viewer guessing.
You don't have to be particularly talented to create a self-portrait, or indeed any kind of painting. Francis Bacon didn’t have an art background, or education, but he did it anyway and created some of the most influential paintings of the 20th century.
The best advice I can give is to get cracking, use a mirror or photograph, pens, paper and paint and just give it a go, you might surprise yourself.
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