Why Me?: An Autobiography

Contents

EDITORS NOTE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Editors Note

I have to commend Bobby on writing his autobiography as he is dyslexic and finds writing difficult at the best of times. When he first approached me with his manuscript he felt that nothing could be done with it as it had no structure, was full of errors and was extremely difficult to read and comprehend. I didn’t see it as a problem but more of a challenge. What he has in this autobiography is heartfelt, funny and serious. It has the makings of a great book.

Bobby didn’t let his dyslexia bother him and worked at it, his end result, is a proud moment. Since then he has started writing science fiction and has the basis for another great book.

I have tried to keep to Bobby’s style as much as possible but had had to edit parts, of which I believe enhance the manuscript. Below is an excerpt from Bobby’s original to give you an idea of how it was in the beginning.

Frances Greves

Creative Writer

[From Chapter Eighteen, Dubai]

‘I was having a shower late next morning after the night out with Akor and as I came out the bathroom bullock naked and walked to words the bed where one of Akor’s girl’s was still asleep with her head bared under the sheet I noticed that I had a mist call on my mobile, witch was on the side table next to the bed I sat down on the bed pushing the lifeless body over so that I had room I was just about to phone the number when it rang again, hallow I said not recognising the number and a girl with a broad American accent said hallow bobby then there was a pores and then she said is that Mr Addis I said yes OH! Good I’ve been trying to get you bobby and then she said is it all right to call you bobby? Yes! Yes of course HI! I’m Jill Land Mark International OH yes right from the company that I had the interview with then she said yes that’s right just to say that you have the job and to call in at the site office to pick up your work permit and sine a few papers then she went on to say in her very broad accent that she would texted me the address in Dubai and welcome to the company or something like that, I wasn’t really listening to her after she had said that I had the job I was so glad that I got it, she went on to say did I know Dubai at all, and where the office was, and where the hotel they would put me up in while I was in Dubai was, I said no to everything she had asked me I said no I didn’t know Dubai at all it was the first time in Dubai when I came for the interview and that was bad enough, she laughed a infectious laugh that made me smile on the other end of the phone, after she had finished laughing she said ill give you my extension number I interrupted her and said Oh good! she laughed again and said you will fit in very well here bobby and then said in a more sensible voice when you get into Dubai Air port phone me on ext and reeled off a number I waited until she had finished and said would you mind just texting me the number because I’ve got a hellish memory O.k. ill do that right know and when you get into Dubai phone me on that number then ill text you the address where the office is and all you will have to do is get yourself into a cab and get your but here! And gave a little giggle and once you get here ill give you all the info: you need bobby, I thanked her and I think she said something like have a nice day and hung up and then I phoned Akor to tell him the good news, but his phone said that it was switched off or out of coverage area so I shook the lifeless body that was still under the covers behind me and said come on get up I stood up and pulled the sheet that was covering her off to reveal this naked curled up body lying there, and all I got was a lot of abuse in Ghanaian as she sat up with her legs apart and her naked body in full view she pulled up the sheet to her waist again from the bottom of the bed leaving her small round breasts out in full view and said what’s wrong where are you going? I stood there looking at her neat firm breasts and the out line of her feminine shape under the sheet that was pushed tight under her legs and said to her I was going to get some food for us she laughed and said like that! NO! And then she giggled and pulled one end of the sheet out from underneath her legs to reveal her naked body then she lay down on her back looking at me giggling and said bobby from where I’m lying it doesn’t look like it wants’ to go any where but back in bed with me!!

Chapter One

Finding Out

The year is January 11th 1957 and I’m at a very expensive public school. This is when I realised that I was different from the rest of my class. It was Monday morning, but this Monday would be so different to my usual Monday’s. Mum told me that Dad would be taking my two older twin brothers and me to school today. They had received a letter from the school inviting them to see the head teacher that morning at 10am. One of my brothers wanted to know what the letter was about and all mum said was it was about Robert. She always called me Robert when she was in a mood or temper with me. Normally it would be Bobby do this, Bobby do that. But today it was ‘Robert.’ I thought to myself what have I done at school to cause them to write to my parents. I was six years old and certainly not a model school boy.

The school was an old public school in Edinburgh. It was an old house that had been converted to a school. They did not believe in the cane or the belt for punishment but instead would stand you in the corner or put you outside the door. Another mad rule was that we had to change to soft indoor shoes when coming in from the outside. Education . . . well, I still have long heated arguments about it to this day with my brothers. I think it was bad education for all the money our parents were forking out for compared to a fee-paying school. I’m not saying all public schools are bad, just the one I was at . . . well, that’s my opinion for what it’s worth.

Well, ten o’clock came and we arrived at the front of the school. We walked through two large wooden doors into a long highly polished wooden floored corridor that echoed. As we walked along the corridor, there were four large doors; the one on the left was the one we wanted. It was the main office. There was another door next to that which was in use as a classroom and next to that was the cloakroom, where we hung our coats and changed our shoes. My father knocked on the door and it echoed along the corridor, a female voice told us to come in. My father opened the door and explained who he was and that we had an appointment with the head teacher.

Yes Mr Addis, if you would like to make your way upstairs to the landing, there’s a small office where Doctor Moffat is expecting you.

‘Docky,’ as we all called him (but not to his face) was an elderly man, balding and about six foot tall with a large grey moustache covering most of his top lip. It was stained with nicotine from the sixty or more cigarette that he smoked in a day. The ends of his moustache came down each side of his mouth to a point. He had a big round red face and looked a bit like a walrus.

We went upstairs as directed and knocked. Instantly Docky said, Come in. He had a deep husky voice like a Sergeant Major on a parade ground. My father opened the door and we walked into a sparsely decorated room. Opposite the door sat Docky at his wooden desk with a red leather inlay and large red chair that matched the top of his desk, and his face.

Come in and sit down he said, pointing to three chairs opposite him. As we sat down, he said Good morning Bobby but before I could reply, he had held his hand out to my father and said, Good morning Mr and Mrs Addis, I am glad you could make it this morning. He sat down again and picked up a brown folder, which he passed across to my parents to look at. As they opened it, Docky described my work to them as they looked at the contents. They discussed my work, their voices drifting away as my attention was drawn to the girls playing tennis over the wall in the neighbouring school. It was a school for girls only, in a large house very similar to the one we were in. I could hear the girls shouting orders to each other through the open window in Docky’s office, as they hit the ball back and forth across the net. Even at six, my attention was very strong to the opposite sex. My friend and I used to watch the girls over the wall at break-time playing amongst them-selves. We would sit there and pick out the ones that we liked the best. In those days, there wasn’t much to look at; they were all covered up in their navy blue pleated tennis uniforms. Not unlike today, where some of the girls at the school, near where I live, wear the shortest black skirts over black tights. I think if they wore skirts like that when I was at school . . . well! That’s showing my age and I’m sounding like a dirty old man . . . maybe I am. Anyway, my attention was brought back suddenly when my name was mentioned and a long word. Docky said it again Bobby’s got dyslexia.

I looked at my parents, who looked at me in return and said What do we do now? Docky explained that they didn’t have the resources for dealing with dyslexia, but he had an address of a Mrs Fraser which he wrote down on a pad with her name and address on and gave to my parents. Mum asked What is dyslexia? Docky then explained to my parents what it was. I tried to listen to what they were saying, but I couldn’t understand. Hey, come on I was only six and more interested in the girls over the wall. Thinking back, what a crazy name dyslexia is for someone who can’t read or write, even trying to spell it was bad enough. In the 1950’s or earlier, nobody really knew what dyslexia was. They didn’t talk about it and if they did, they assumed a child with dyslexia was a backward child, a dummy and very stupid. There were only a few teachers then who could spot it in a child, and even less that could fix it. I had a big problem; I couldn’t read, write or store immediate information. It would not lodge in my brain. For example, if someone said to me 2+2=4 and then asked me twenty minutes later the same question, I would have forgotten the answer. Anyway enough of that, dyslexia was here to stay and little did I know how it would change my life.

The summer holidays were about to start. Little did I know that this would be the last time I would spend at my very proper speaking public school? Mum had phoned Mrs Fraser and found there wouldn’t be a place in her school for another year. I was then sent to a fee paying school which happened to be just down the road. It was unlike the last school where we took the bus and my brothers were told to look after me. For the first time in my life, I was on my own in the jungle with no big brothers to look after me at school, or when I came home. Thinking back on it now, it must have been better for my parent’s pockets as well when I left the good old public school.

Chapter Two

New School

My first day at the new school was a mixture of horror, dislike and loneliness. Right from the start I was classed as stupid. I didn’t have a chance to tell the teacher of my problem and I didn’t know if my parents had. I would have thought that the head teacher of the school would have received a letter from Docky, but it didn’t get to the teachers, well I don’t think so. It was too much of a problem for the teacher to be bothered about in a class of thirty or more. My classmates were on books and other things like reading and maths, far more advanced than myself. It was impossible to join in and keep up with them, so I ended up being left behind. I couldn’t read ordinary books and it didn’t take long for the other boys and girls to notice. They started to tease me and call me names. In the playground, I used to stand by myself while everyone else played. Sometimes a group of children would come over and shout dummy before running away laughing. I didn’t fit in with the rest of them at all. I tried to join in but got told go away dummy.

It was hard, and most days I would go home in tears feeling very sad and hoping that I wouldn’t have to go to school the next day. It was so different from the last school; mind you my public school accent didn’t help. Another name they called me was snobby and while I was trying so hard to fit in, my brothers were still going to the same school and having an almost stress free life and attending choir practice. Sometimes on Sundays I had to walk down the road with them in their long black gowns and white frilly neckerchiefs. I hoped that none of the boys or girls from my class would see me. How could I explain that to them? It was bad enough being a dummy and snob in their eyes, but to be caught walking down the road with two penguins, no way!

That brings me to an incident that happened. It was a weekend and my brothers had made a free-wheeling go-kart. It was roughly an old orange box that was fixed to long wide plank. It had four wheels that turned on a shaft, two on the back and two at the front. The two front wheels were attached to another long wooden plank that went underneath the main one and were connected by bolts. This plank moved allowing us to attach a rope which we used to steer. Or we used our feet, resting them either side of the wheels. Whilst they were trying it out, I was running alongside them shouting give me a shot as wee brothers do. All of a sudden, I ran straight into a lamp post and not your normal one at that. It was a steel lamp post with hundreds of points on it, and then wham. I still have the scar on my head to this day. A week or so later, I was wheeling my bike across the zebra crossing with one of my brothers, when a car didn’t stop and knocked me over. You could say that I’m a bit unlucky. I have to manage this big bad concrete jungle all by myself; you will have your own opinion on that after reading this book.

A year had passed and eventually time was up at the school of ‘hell’. It was time to meet Mrs Fraser, thank god. She was an elderly woman with grey hair tied back in a bun. What sticks in my mind even to this day is she had whiskers all over her chin which were also grey. She was alright; she had a kind face and didn’t treat me as if I were a dummy. There were two other boys there, we didn’t really talk other than the first days introductions, when Mrs Fraser said this is Bobby, he will be with us for a year. Not like you two, who will be leaving in the summer. The first day was taken up talking to her and walking round her garden. It wasn’t a school but her house and we sat at her dining room table. What a difference from my last school. It was like working and playing in your own home.

The second day came and I was handed a book to read. It was a thin book, red in colour and had on the front in big bold, gold letters ‘Noddy and Big Ears.’ On the first page was a picture of Noddy in his car and on the opposite page was bold black letters stating ‘Noddy’s in his car.’ I had to read this one page with four words on it and then write it down. This was done over and over again, Noddy’s in his fucking car. The first page took me about an hour or more. I was so sick of Noddy and his fucking car. Then, Mrs Fraser would ask me, What is Noddy doing Bobby?

He’s in his fucking car miss! Well, that’s what I would have liked to have said. I looked at Noddy in his car and even he was laughing at me with a big smile on his face. After it was well and truly stuck in my mind, we went outside into the back garden, walking and talking. In between talking Mrs Fraser would ask me what Noddy was doing and I would tell her. We came in from the outside and the other two boys were working at the table. I was told to sit on the floor and was given a tin. Inside were plastic bricks like Lego. I started to play with them as Mrs Fraser spent the rest of the morning with the other boys, until lunch time. Mrs Fraser made us sandwiches and a pot of tea, whilst we helped by taking it through into the front room and sat round the table. After lunch, I was told to sit at the table while the two boys went and did something else. Noddy was put in front of me again, but this time I was on the second page, fantastic. It’s only taken all morning to read one fucking page with four words on it, oh well!! The second page was Noddy and Big Ears standing looking at a house and Noddy saying this is my house. Well, again I had to read it again and again, and then write it down. Mrs Fraser would ask me questions, correct my mistakes and point out different things that I either read or spelt wrong. Then, it was time to go home at three in the afternoon. The day started at ten in the morning and ended at three in the afternoon. In between that, it was Noddy and his friend Big fucking Ears, day in and day out for a whole week.

They say that people with dyslexia are well above average intelligence for their age. Okay, I can’t read or write or store immediate information, but I’m eight and a half and reading all about Noddy’s fucking life. Either Noddy has to go or I will end up in an asylum screaming at the top of my voice don’t; don’t let Noddy in for fuck’s sake.

This went on for a year, yes a whole year. I got rid of Noddy. Well, one of us had to go and it was Noddy and his friend Big fucking Ears, who grinned at me all the time I was reading about his friend. I fixed them; I just shut the book on them, ha ha! See how you like it mate. But it was all in vain as I got another book the same thickness and colour. This time it was the black cat is on the mat. Oh no, not the fucking black cat’s on the fucking black mat. Well, I thought, I’ll just book myself into the asylum now as I’ve got this for a whole year.

Mind you, she was good, she was very good. Mrs Fraser did what she said. She had me reading and writing in a year. With that grey hair tied back in a bun and the grey whiskers, which I would have liked to have pulled out one by one. I came away from Mrs Fraser’s reading and writing okay. I wasn’t fast; in fact I was quite slow in reading, but . . . I could read. My spelling, well that’s another thing. All I had been reading for the past two years was Noddy, the Black cat and other books like that. I was nine, maybe a bit more, but boys and girls of the same age were so much more advanced and confident with school work. She had done what she had set out to do and now it was time for me to meet the big bad world . . . but I don’t know if the big bad world was ready for me!

Chapter Three

Big Bad World

Whilst I was going to Mrs Fraser, we had moved house to another part of Edinburgh. My brothers were still going to the good old public school. The new house was much bigger and it had a lot of ground. It had a long driveway leading up to it. I can remember being scared at night of the long dark drive and the tall trees and shrubs that lined the drive. I used to run the full length of the drive, from the front gate and the streetlights, right to the front door without stopping to the porch light. I would get my breath back, before going in. It was next to another large house in its own grounds. They were identically built by two brothers. One house had an indoor swimming pool and the other, a large orchard and a conservatory, which had fallen down many years before we moved in. All that was left was the foundations where the boilers used to be. I used to hide down there and smoke dried leaves in my dad’s pipe with a friend, mad or what? There was a pond in the field next to the house, where we had a home-made boat. It was a bit like a banana with a square front end that stuck up in the air. The bottom of the boat came down to a round hole that was patched, but let in water. The boat had no seats and thinking back it probably wasn’t a boat at all, but we had good fun in it. I think we found it on the canal near our home. We dragged it to the pond where it sank several times.

This house was where I fell in love for the first time with the girl next door. Yes, the girl next door! I was seven and used to sit up in a tree, next to a stone wall that overlooked her garden. I used to wait there until I saw her, then my heart would start pounding . . . thinking back I never talked to her, I just sat in the tree to scared to say anything in case I got a knock back. I gave her presents out of my mother’s old wooden jewellery box. I could have been giving the family treasures away for all that I knew, if we ever had any. I used to wrap them up and throw them down to her in the garden. She probably cashed them in and moved to the Riviera somewhere. Thanking that little boy that couldn’t speak, but threw diamonds and other priceless stones to her from a tree. What was I like I ask you? And I didn’t even get a kiss.

My brothers built a gang hut in another tree in the garden. We spent a lot of time playing in it. We even had silver candelabras hanging on the walls. No candles but I think we used to burn polythene or something in them to create some sort of light. The crazy things you do when you’re small. That reminds me of when we were mucking about with a garden fork, seeing how far we could throw it. My brother said let’s see how close we can get it to each other without moving. So we did, taking it in turn to throw it at each other’s feet. Then it happened . . . my brother threw it and it went straight into my foot. One of the prongs went into the ground next to my sandals, whilst another one went in between the skin of my big toe and index toe. The other two prongs went into the ground at the other side of my foot pinning it to the ground. My brother jumped up and down saying I’ve got the nearest, I’ve won. As I started to cry, I remember my brother saying, What’s wrong it’s not sore. He pulled it out and I hopped away into the house to tell mum.

Another thing I did was to play cowboys and Indians by myself whilst my brothers were at school or somewhere else like any normal kid. I don’t think I was normal. As I said, there was a large field next to the house that joined on to a public park. I used to play by myself at cowboys and Indians and I was always an Indian. But this wasn’t a normal game, oh no wait for it . . . I used to strip off everything apart from a thin belt that I wore around my waist. I used to hang from the belt two of my father’s big white handkerchiefs, one in the front and one at the back. Now I was an Indian. I should have been locked up after Mrs Frasers and the key thrown away! Anyway I used to run around playing and hiding from people in the park. I was lying down on my back fixing the handkerchief over my little willy when I noticed a woman with a dog standing looking at me. I got up and ran in the direction of the big field next to the house. I don’t know what she thought when she saw me; maybe she thought I had escaped from the loony home. She wasn’t far wrong. I may not have escaped from one, but I think I was bordering on being locked up in one. I could well be a fucking loony and not known it. After I got back to the field and safety, I lay down on the grass to get my breath back in the sun and thought of that woman looking at me. It was enough to make my wee willy grow and make a slight bump in the soft white handkerchief. I was only eleven or younger, I took off the handkerchief to see this little thing sticking up for all its might, like a little flower bursting out of the soil for the first time and reaching up into the sky. So, as any normal boy would do (did I say normal), I took a firm grip with my thumb and my first two fingers and lay there in the grass on my back, in that summer’s afternoon waiting to erupt. But at that age there’s nothing to erupt, just a little tingle. That little tingle was enough to make me do it on other occasions, and I tell you it wasn’t the first time I did it and it wouldn’t be the last, just because I liked it so much.

Well enough of that madness. We didn’t stay long at that house and were on the move again to another part of Edinburgh and another fee paying school. Lucky, for it was just around the corner from where the new house was in Corstorphine. It was a large inner city primary school, god what a revelation. There were kids there from all lifestyles. There wasn’t your nice public school types here, oh no, I was put again into a class of about twenty or more pupils. No nice Mrs Fraser and working in her garden, no stopping to talk or sniff the roses. This new teacher was a mean son of a bitch, he wouldn’t stand any nonsense and was mean through and through. He was middle aged, had black greasy hair and wore a white shirt with no tie and a crumpled grey suit that looked like it had been through a tumble dryer. Under his suit, resting on his left shoulder was a foot or more of a long leather strap, which he used regularly on us. I had it done to me on several occasions, but I remember the first time I had it done. I had never, never had the belt or anything like that before. I remember this particular time. I was told to come and stand in front of the class and hold my hand stretched out in front of me, one hand on top of the other. I remember he called it a double hander. He came down on me so hard it left red marks on my hand and wrist. He did it again to the shouting and cheering of the class. I was then told to go and sit down. It took a lot of willpower not to cry and I sat there with my hands between my legs as the pain was intense.

It was after the summer holidays when I joined this hellhole. I was put at the back of the class and the books handed out, they were given to the boy or girl at the front of the class and handed back. First the reading book, then spelling and so on until all the books were out. It was the same as the last school, the one before Mrs Fraser. They just didn’t have the time for me. All the teacher said when I tried to explain anything was Addis shut up or Addis come out for the belt. It was hopeless trying to explain anything, as he would not listen. So I shut up and just listened to what he was saying. Suddenly, horror struck, he said, I want you all to read something out of the reading book in turn. It started at the left of the class and worked its way across to the right. Up and down each row until it came to me. I had to stand up and carry on from where the last pupil had finished. Well I was a wreck. I didn’t know where the last pupil had finished until a boy in front turned round and showed me. Even then, I couldn’t read the words or pronounce them. I was trying to pronounce each word before saying it. I was so slow, that two other boys started to take the piss out of me by stuttering. I was so embarrassed standing up in front of the whole class trying to read this fucking book. Okay, I could read but not aloud and in front of twenty or so boys and girls that were taking the piss out of me. I was a fumbling wreck until the teacher told me to give up and sit down. He told the other two boys that were taking the piss to shut up or come out for the belt. I sat there just staring at the book, hoping that it would swallow me up and make me disappear. When that had finished, the teacher said you all have a poetry book in front of you; I want you to pick a poem out of it and learn it. Then I want you come out to the front and recite it. Terrifyingly I looked at the poetry book, fuck me it was Rabbi Burns, one of Scotland’s well known poets. It was written in old Scottish dialect, I had no fucking chance. I looked at the book in horror, flicking through the pages hoping to find a small poem to read. Fuck, I couldn’t even pronounce the guy’s name let alone read one his fucking poems. Anyway, I had most of the term to learn it, or try.

I was at this school for roughly two years, where I made some friends and many enemies. My public school accent didn’t help. They used to call me in their words you fucking posh basara. I think they were trying to say you fucking posh bastard. I said this to some of them in my best public school accent. Their reply was a punch to the face, or they would repeat themselves up close and in my face no you fucking posh basara. I thought to myself, I have to change and get tough like these guys, If I don’t, I’m not going to survive in this jungle. It’s not that I thought I was smarter than these guys, I wasn’t. It’s just they had a harder upbringing than me. They had to be hard to survive and if I’m going to make it in this jungle, I had to adapt and adapt quickly. God knows these guys could read, write and spell ten times better than myself. So I started to lie and got very good at it. I wasn’t going to tell them about dyslexia because none of them would understand what it was, and, it would have made me an even bigger idiot than I was already. So, one lie led to another and before I knew it, it had turned into a big story. One of the stories was that my father was in the RAF based in Germany when I was born and that we had just moved here. That’s why I can’t read and write English. This was all right until one smart boy said, okay then, speak some German. Shit, I had to think fast so my lie would stay a lie. So I came up with an idea and spoke in a made up language, just talking gibberish with an accent. It came out of my mouth as if it was real. Anyway, they wouldn’t know German if they heard it. I thought to myself if one of them did, I could lie again and cover my tracks. Lying was easier than the truth, it got them off my back until the next time I had to lie, and there were plenty of those.

It didn’t take long before the whole class was talking about me. In the eyes of the teachers, I was lazy and made up any excuse not to work. It wasn’t that at all, I just couldn’t keep up with the rest of them when it came to reading, maths or storing information. As not to distract the rest of the class, I was put outside the classroom door with my desk. I was given another book to read in my own time. No wonder the class thought I was a dummy. Every time it came to reading or maths, I was put outside. I wasn’t getting anywhere in my education and the teachers would just ignore me. I would read the book the teacher gave me, starting at the beginning and reading one chapter. But it didn’t make any sense. I would point my finger at the word as I read it, but I tried too hard to read the word and not take in the story. It didn’t matter how many times I read it, I couldn’t make any sense of it, so fuck it. It was getting more a problem for the teachers and me, but other subjects I was okay at and there were no problems.

The term was nearly up, yes, time for the summer holidays. The thing I was dreading was looming up yes it was Rabbi Burns. I had taken the poem book home to get some moral support and pick out a poem, but I didn’t get the support that I thought I would get. I was palmed off with go and see your grandmother dear, I’m busy. My grandmother lived with us and looked after us whilst mum and dad went out to work. She was kind and had time for me, unlike the rest. I had time for her and god bless she tried to help me, but I think even my granny was stumped by Rabbi Burns. I think she said you will have to get your father dear. Dad was busy with my brothers, so I spent a long time in my bedroom trying to pick out a poem and read it. It was hopeless, and it didn’t matter how many times I came down to ask someone to help me, they were all too busy. I don’t think they could pronounce the words either. I got no help and didn’t learn a poem. When I returned to school, I was told to come out to the front of the class along with three boys and two girls and was given the belt for being lazy.

The new term wasn’t any better than the first. The only difference was that I had made some friends. I was still put outside the class, but this time they put one of the brighter boys with me to help me read and help me with maths. All Tom wanted to do was play with his thing . . . yes, his dick. What is it about me that attract these people? I’m not telling a lie. He would sit beside me at my desk, show me what to read, or if it were maths show me what to do. He would then tell me to carry on, whilst he whipped out his dick and played with it. I ask you, how can you concentrate on something when right next to you there’s a guy rubbing his thing and saying Addis, Addis, do you want to touch it? My reply was get tae fuck. One of the few Scottish phrases I picked up at this school. It’s not the sort of thing you would say in front of your mum or someone like that. Never the less, he was put out to help me get ready for the eleven plus exam, which was looming up.

Then it happened, we were sitting out on the landing. It was a short landing with stairs going up beside me to another landing. The landing where I was sitting with my desk was connected to another classroom at the other end. Besides that, stairs leading down to another two classrooms and so on. Anyway, I was to read a problem in my math book then work it out. But it wasn’t making any sense as usual. I turned to Tom to ask him. He was doing his usual thing of playing with his fucking dick right next to me. Suddenly the other classroom door opened and two girls came out and caught him with it out. They couldn’t help but see what he was doing, they stood watching him struggle to put it back in his trousers. They ran down the stairs laughing to themselves, and then shouted something back up, but I didn’t catch what was said. It took a long time to live that down. It didn’t matter what I said, nobody believed me. It was all over the school that we were playing with each other outside the classroom door on the landing, I ask you!

The three weeks leading up to the exam passed quite quickly, and then it was time for the exam to grade you for secondary school. The eleven plus was the exam in those days, it sorted you out into two different classes. If you were good at work, you were put into a class like 2-A-2, or 3-A-1, and so on. If you were not so clever, you were put into a lower class. Well, there was no hope for me. The day came for the exam, we were all put into the large hall and the papers handed out. The clock started and I looked at the paper. Shit, there’s no way I’m going to do this. I looked again at the paper, it said to put your name, class, and date at the top of the paper. I did that and that’s as far as I got. Nothing made any sense and that was it. The bell went, we were told to hand our paper in and that was my eleven plus exam . . . fuck me. You could say that I wasn’t ready for the eleven plus. Two years were up and I was ready for secondary school. I don’t know if secondary school was ready for me.

Chapter Four

Grammar School

It was the first day of secondary school, and if I thought that primary school was bad, this was ten times worse. There were hundreds of boys and girls from all walks of life again. The school itself was newly built. It was all glass and concrete, like everything at that time. It was the time when the architects and designers were building everything out of concrete. The modern look, ha . . . and it was massive. We all piled into the large assembly room to be told what class we were going into. I looked around to see if there was anyone that I recognized, but there wasn’t, just a mass of boys and girls. It went on all morning until there were just a dozen boys and girls left and I was one of them. They were all the misfits, the ones that didn’t want to work. If they’d had it their way they wouldn’t have been there in the first place. Half of them were just out of approved school or they had just finished community service for breaking and entering. We were the dregs of the school and I was classed as one of them just because the education system let me down. They didn’t recognize that I had dyslexia the day I started my schooling after Mrs Frasers. They classed me as a backward, a slow to learn pupil or a dummy. That’s how I ended up with this rabble.

This was the start of my real education. The teachers who were sorting out the classes said they didn’t have a class low enough to put us in to . . . yes! Once the teacher said this, there was a chorus of whistles and cheering from my class mates . . . well they were, I had to spend the rest of my school days with them. The teacher told us to shut up and continued to say they had no class low enough for us. They would have to make up a number for us and that was 3-B-3. I can remember telling my two good friends who lived just round from where I did in Corstorphine, about how I was left to the last dozen, the dregs of society, miss fits. They just burst out laughing. It was alright for them they were in a better class than me. Okay, they had studied for their eleven plus and got a better placing in the grammar school. Apart from that, we remained good friends. Even to this day, we still talk and laugh about me ending up in 3-B-3. The head master said as we were leaving they would be watching us as a class. To the applauses of whistles and shouting, we left the large hall to find our first class and the first victim teacher. They were a rabble. None of them were wearing any kind of uniform. It was just tee-shirts and jeans. The girls were not as bad; they would have on short skirts and white blouses, no tie just undone and sometimes a tee-shirt underneath. I was the only one with a uniform and I stood out like a sore thumb. I soon lost the uniform, blazer, tie and even the cap!! Can you believe it? Thinking back I must have looked like a proper geek, something else alongside the rest of them. But that didn’t stop them from calling me names. I was singled out, no wonder and was left in my corner of the classroom while the rest of them were on the other side. I had my books and was trying to learn, but even then they would come over, pick on me and hit me.