Probably like many, I went to sleep the other night with the radio on so that I could follow the progress of the American presidential election through the night. Only, what actually happened was what happens every time I fall asleep with the radio on: I had a restless night’s sleep.
Each time I woke I also reached for my mobile phone which was lying face down on my bedside table, I turned it over, brushed my finger across the fingerprint reader to unlock it and tapped at the BBC News app as my face lit up from its feint glow. One question: who is winning? Please let it be Biden.
Of course, two days later and we’re still waiting.
Every election night I am reminded of that general election night in 1997, the one where Labour overturned the Conservative government and put Tony Blair into Number 10.
Because this week has been hectic, I’ve not had much time to think about my first Throwback Thursday feature. So here’s something from a wee writing project I’ve been working on, documenting my recollections of my time in the National Youth Choir of Great Britain.
This is from my first NYCGB course at St Elphin’s School, Darley Dale in Derbyshire in December 1988.
It’s a long story how, and I won’t go into it here as it mostly involves tales of vomiting while being interviewed by the BBC, three brain haemorrhages, bright lights and ambulance sirens, and not dying, but my dad was a member of a men’s Christian group that had the unlikely name of the Full Gospel Business Men’s Fellowship International. Or FGBMFI for short. Which even then is quite long. And even now I still will it to be the initials of some kind of furniture outlet for the Russian secret service; although technically that would be KGBMFI, not that they are called KGB now—it’s FSB. But I digress.
My dad phoned up a bloke in the Matlock chapter of FGBMFI and explained that his naive, shy and unassuming 17-year-old son would soon be attending his first National Youth Choir of Great Britain course in nearby Darley Dale and if it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience would he be willing to pick me up from Matlock station and safely deposit me at the door of St Elphin’s school?
“I know what he’s like,” he said. “Knowing him he’ll end up chatting to some pretty girl about the post-industrial fate of Greater London market towns. He doesn’t understand how taxis work. He’s scared of buses and I promise that he’ll not break your passenger-side window.”
I broke his passenger-side window.
I was trying to be helpful. I was trying to be neat. I had had no right to wind the window down in the first place. But I was too warm. I was nervous. I was flustered. I’d thrown my luggage into the back of his battered-looking, dark blue Nissan Cherry and quickly clambered into the front.
It was a damp and cold December afternoon. It was already dark. I was warm and the windscreen started to mist up.
“This is very kind of you,” I said as I reached for the handle and wound the window down an inch or two.
“You’re welcome. Don’t…!” he started. But I interrupted him.
“Is it far… to St Elphin’s?” I asked, trying to appear keen and friendly; trying to hide my nervousness.
It wasn’t far. In fact, if we’d bothered to do any research whatsoever then we would have discovered that the distance from Matlock station to St Elphin’s school was exactly 1.6 miles (2,574 metres). That’s about a 20 minutes’ walk, even with a suitcase.
Or a 3 minutes’ drive.
Three minutes later we pulled up outside the school entrance.
I think by that point I was now as surprised as he was at why my dad had felt that I needed a lift to the school from the railway station. It had seemed no time at all since I’d asked him if it was far to St Elphin’s, and actually arriving at St Elphin’s by the end of my question had kind of answered the question for me. I felt quite embarrassed. What must he think of me: this pathetic kid from Scotland who needed a free taxi ride effectively across the road?
I started to wind the passenger’s window back up.
“Don’t…” he started again.
But it was too late. A couple of tugs on the handle and I watched with a certain degree of horror as the window jumped off its runners and disappeared into the car door.
And that was the moment that I asked my question. The same question that I had asked a few years earlier when I sat on the bed of my brother’s friend Jonny and felt the bed legs snap beneath me; the same question that I was to ask again in 1992 in a garage in Brisbane, Australia, when (again) I sat on a bed and (again) felt the bed legs give way beneath me. My question: ‘is it supposed to do that?’
And the universal answer in such circumstances: … No!
I carried my suitcase up a couple of steps to the front door, turned and gave a grateful but apologetic wave to the Christian ‘taxi driver’ whose car I’d just vandalised and I stepped into the wonderfully grand entrance hall of St Elphin’s School, with its spectacular sweeping staircase and at the bottom of it an elaborate mahogany fireplace. The entrance hall was thronging with young people.
If you ever happen to stumble upon this blog post, to the guy whose car I unwittingly broke: I’m really sorry. You did, however, deliver me to door of my first NYCGB course where I met some of the best, loveliest friends I have ever known, so also a heartfelt thank you.