Sid James died for somebody's sins, but not mine...

I shall be employing a bit of the old roman-a-clef for this one, not for fear of any legal repercussions, but nobody really comes out of this well. Myself included.

For this we shall be going back in time to a different Belfast. The Belfast before the tidal wave of Urban Hygge Graffiti Art, before street food, before craft beer canteen furniture, before ‘creatives’, before ‘artisan’, before upward inflection, before Open Mic Faux Lawds and Token Bird Comedy Nites, before Ukelele Orchestras, before algorithm clubnights, before we started smashing avocados and burgers, to a time when, believe it or not, Belfast was in a worse state than it is now. And if, before we proceed, you wish to clutch at your pearls and accuse me of being too critical on Arr Wee Belfawssst So It Is, take a wee walk round the city centre at night and tell me it’s not on its arse right now.

But that was now and this is then. Let’s go back to when Belfast was very grey. Like, very grey; gloomy-arsed grey buildings thick with dust after the explosions in other grey buildings, under a slate sky. It suited a lot of wardrobes. Grey people in greyer clothes. And brown. A lot of brown. It’s 1982 and I’ve just started St Malachy’s College Belfast after passing my eleven-plus and earning, apparently, the great honour of attending this prestigious academic institution. You will be reminded on a regular basis just how honoured you should be by quite a few of the teachers there, because you are from the nearby housing estate, not from ‘Up The Road’. The teacher who will do this the most, with much relish, is science teacher ‘Skin’, a dozy old fart who should have been put out to pasture long before you got there. Skin doesn’t appear to do much else other than sarcastically ask you every science lesson if you were “Out rioting last night, Lindsay?” and dole out punishment to you if you even dare to answer back in any way sarcastically. He tells the class what to do that lesson, then proceeds to fall asleep and let lab assistant Vince take the wheel, while crusty old Skin nods off in his chair.

He’s not the worst. The worst is Irish/Spanish teacher Donard Canton. At the time I’d say he’d have been in his twenties, not long out of teacher training college, long enough to obviously hate kids and teaching them, and still young/old enough to be able to mete out hidings to kids half his age and a quarter his size. For that seemed to be his favourite part of teaching. And he decided one day to do that very thing to me. My first month in the school and six weeks after my father had died. I was a gift to a bully like that.

I was a small kid then, overwhelmed by being in ‘Big School’ and deeply traumatised by my dad dying just before starting.

Little kid. Dead Dad. A gift to a bully. You’d expect the bully to be older lads in the school, mebbe, or the tough kid in the same year, who has gathered around a gang of weaker kids willing to bully their own to avoid being bullied themselves. For such is the law of the playground (our playground was called a Quad. Good grief. Wodehouse aspirations, much?). That’s what any kid would probably expect and yeah it did happen to other kids. But my bully was a teacher, a grown man whose job it was to educate and actually take care of his pupils whilst in his guardianship in this fine institution. To this day I still don’t know why he suddenly decided to beat the shit out of me. But I’ll never forget what he did.

I was sat at the back of row three in every class. We were seated alphabetically which, with the surname beginning with ‘L’, put me at the back of row three, right in the middle of the classroom, the next half made up of mainly MCs, MACs and Os, not uncommon in catholic schools. Being at the back suited me. I hadn’t spoken much since my dad died and didn’t want to speak much either. I was terrified every single day. I didn’t really want to leave home and didn’t want my mum to leave home and have to go to work. See, my dad died in work. Effectively, to an 11 year old, he went out to work and didn’t return. He died and somehow Kid Logic tells you that’s what happens and that’s what you should avoid if you can. So I couldn’t wait to get home everyday and see that my mum was okay, that she was still there. I never joined any after school activity groups until years later when Kid Logic turned into Teen Logic and things in my mind settled down. The year or so on valium that it took to straighten me out after the beating may have helped.

For it was a vicious beating. And entirely unprovoked. And here’s how it went.

Donard began class as he always did, grunting a greeting as he entered the room. He always liked to paint himself as a hard man, did Donard. Us kids should be way impressed. He then began to do roll call as he walked to the front of the room, then up the row of seats to where I was sitting. As he called my name and I responded ‘Here, sir!’, he stopped. I had my head down but was alerted by the pause after my name was called. I looked up and he was towering over me. He looked absolutely demented.

“Stand up, Lindsay!!” he bellowed

I jumped in my seat and said “What, sir?”

“STAND UP!!”

I wasn’t given time to stand up. He grabbed me by the lapels of my blazer and lifted me up and slammed me against the wall, winding me instantly and I remember yelling “Please sir, no”, but it did no good. I had pens and pencils in the top pocket of my blazer as Kid Logic and TV had led me to believe that’s where you kept them. He grabbed them out of my pocket and threw them across the room, roaring the entire time. I got slapped across the face with his palm then the back of his hand and thrown down onto the floor in a heap. A crying, panicking heap. This is the first time I’m being hit by an adult. Our mum and dad didn’t hit us, we’re good kids. What’s going on?? Batman, Superman, Evel, Elvis??!! My heroes, where are you? This is the Nick Of Time! Kid Logic says you’re supposed to be here!! Where are you??!! Donard wasn’t done yet, the big hard man. He then decided I needed a few kicks for good measure, which winded me further and I thought I was going to throw up.

“Pick up your pens..NOW” he roared as he walked to front of class again. A few of the lads in the class reached down to lift the pens and pencils that had rested nearby.

“DON’T ANY OF YOU HELP HIM”

Then I was told to crawl round the room to get them, which I did, then hauled myself back into my seat and prayed for the class to be over quickly. It wasn’t. I was in absolute convulsions which seemed to annoy Donard even more, making him shout or hit me a slap on the head if I made a sob or a sniff or anything really.

I went home at lunchtime. Yes, this happened in the morning. I mean. Who doesn’t like to start their day by beating children up? I should add at this point that Donard and quite a few other teachers were notorious for their brutality and all-out enthusiasm, gusto even, for being utter fucking psychopaths.

My mum complained to the school. Donard went to teach Spanish in Spain for a year, but didn’t lose his job or a single penny of his wages. I was moved to another class to avoid him teaching him. Think of that in today’s context. Kept his job and the pupil is just moved out of harms way from the violent behaviour of a teacher. Would it have happened if my dad were still alive? If he was a rich big shot from ‘up the road’? Hard to say but the aftermath would have been a lot different had he been alive. My dad was very protective of us. Getting us up and reared and relatively unscathed from the madness around us outside the front door was what he and mum worked hard and succeeded at. To have his son beaten up by a teacher would not have went down well. My dad was a wonderful, warm, kind man. But messing with his family?

Donard got off lightly. A few uncles of mine were keen to test how tough this bastard thought he was and how dare he put a hand on their nephew. Only my mother saved Donard from what I’d imagine would have been a real lesson in brutality.

But it didn’t stop there. On his return, in no better mood, he took great delight in reminding me every day how he’d beaten the shit of me and how he’d delight in doing it again. Passing him in the corridor meant an elbow in the face, a body check slamming me into a wall. If he was behind me, he’d wallop me in the back of the head with his briefcase or quite simply shove me out of his way.

I never told my family of this. There was enough going on in the house dealing with our loss and trying to keep things together. It stopped after a summer of a growth spurt on my part. I got taller, a bit broader, a bit more confident and the feelings of murderous rage every time I saw Donard, were pretty obvious by how I stared the fucker down. It was clear what would happen should he try and be the big lad again. By then I detested the school, its apparent ‘values’, its elitism, its utter blind hypocrisy. And he was a symbol of all of it. Looking back, I know I probably would have beat him half to death and not felt a single bit of remorse about it.

Even over a decade later, I did a search online for Donard, with every intention of confronting him, offering a ‘fair dig’, to see if he was still a tough guy. Couldn’t find him, but found stories from other ex-pupils about his violent, abusive behaviour. Then as more years passed I wanted a confrontation of a different kind. I just wanted to know why he did it. And did he realise the long-term effect it would have on me? Because bloody hell, it did. As every counsellor and therapist I’ve been to over the years has pointed out, it was that moment, at the worst period of my life, a violent attack like that from someone supposedly responsible for my wellbeing, pretty much sowed the seeds of why I’ve always had a distrust and disdain for authority figures. I mean, I’m not as bad as I used to be, I’m older and I think wiser now, but I’ll still never fully trust anyone in a position of power. I’ve learned by experience and knowledge that that’s not altogether a bad thing. People in power tend to abuse it; vigilance should be employed as a constant.

You may ask how the hell did such brutality and random acts of extreme psychotic behaviour go unchecked and unpunished? The answer is very simple. Christian Brothers education. For all you non-catholic readers out there, it may seem confusing, like what are the differences between Christian Brothers and Priests. Let me walk you through it. Again, very simple. Priest = more likely to be a bit nonce-y. Christian Brother = more likely to be a bit punch-y. The Christian Brothers have always had a reputation for violence when it came to education. They’ll get the word of God into you while they beat the Beejesus out of you. And these maniacs were entrusted in teaching us how to be educated young men, of virtue strong and true. If you’ve ever seen the 1985 film Catholic Boys (also billed as Heaven Help Us), it actually isn’t too far off the mark

They were actually responsible for teaching us Sex Education. I’m not even kidding.

We had one, just one, sex education lesson in our whole career as students of St Malachy’s College. All the mysteries, nuances, intricacies and questions about the opposite sex were to be revealed and handled in one 45 minute lesson. Time management wasn’t their strong suite. We had two/three RE lessons a week!! Religious Education. That was a misnomer. It wasn’t education about theology whatsoever, it was basically Catholic Education. Learning how to be a better catholic two/three times a week. I was failing miserably at being a good catholic, it wasn’t something I was intending to pursue, the old ‘being a catholic’ thing; good or otherwise.

I got kicked out of RE class quite a bit, me and my pal Patrick Fitzwilliam also. He was a very clever smartarse and I wanted to be just as much of a smartarse to these ridiculous God-botherers who were trying to bully faith into us. I’d rather stand bored in a cold corridor than listen to their antediluvian dogma. As I got bigger and more confident, the less of a fuck I gave about religion or most other subjects in St Macs. I couldn’t wait to get out. The proudest expulsion from R.E., the one that nearly made the PsychoVien on Father Lonegan’s forehead explode, was asking him if the communion really was the body of Christ. When he replied of course, undoubtedly, unequivocally it was, I asked how many I’d have to take to have eaten a whole Jesus. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and dragged me out into the corridor. As he proceeded to lecture me on how evil a boy I was and I’d better improve my attitude and be more “Malachite”. I kept my head down, trying to stifle the giggles, looking upside down at the school motto on the pocket crest. “Gloria Ab Intus”. Glory from within. Yeah, right.

Now, here’s the funny bit. I know it’s been bleak so far but hey, they say comedy is tragedy with hindsight. As well as distilling all we needed to know about sex in 45 minutes, the school thought it might be a good idea to hold a ceili every month and invite a few girls schools along to our school for a bit of healthy social interaction. For anyone unfamiliar, a ceili is Irish Dancing. Not the demented Flatley stuff or even the wigs and make-up lunacy that a lot of competitions favour these days, no this was like Irish country dancing. Like, line dancing.

Blimey, a chance to dance with girls!! Make no mistake though, the Brothers were there to chaperone and make sure that no matter what, where there were teenagers dancing, there would be space between us. Always leave a bit of room for Jesus.

As little interest as we had for the music or dancing, us blossoming music heads into The Smiths and the nascent Hip Hop scene, this was a chance to meet girls. The excitement, the big deal!! Us spotty wee herberts with questionable hygiene and no idea how to behave around girls. This could end really badly.

A lad in our year, Joe McNamee, an enterprising sort, used to have a can of Insignia deodorant that he’d charge 10p a squirt should we want to mask the smell of teenage stale sweat, mustiness and feet. Joe McNamee is probably a despot in a foreign land now, a slum landlord or married into aristocracy. Or in prison. I’m hoping despot, he’d a wile despotic look about him.

As a sidenote, dunno if you remember Insignia, it came out in 1982, was a ‘sister brand’ of Old Spice and was an entire range of deodorant, shower gel,aftershave, talc etc for, as they marketed it “One all over smell”. They even used the Rolling Stones song “It’s All Over Now”, changing the lyrics of the first verse and chorus to shill what was cheap but not altogether unpleasant smelly stuff. It’s Only Rock n Roll, eh MicknKeef?

Before we proceed, we weren’t altogether unfamiliar with the opposite sex. I mean, we saw pictures of naked women quite a lot, we were children of the seventies. There were Carry On films screened quite regularly, as were the buxom Hammer films.

There were plenty of empty tins of Tennents on the streets, too. Ah, Tennents, you absolute godsend to the hormonal teenage boy of yesteryear. I mean, think of the meeting at the brewery, putting it round the table, asking how they can gain advantage over the competition, to really make the brand stand out. God knows what and who suggested idea after idea then some plucky soul, nay, some genius speaking up timidly at first…all eyes look to him/her (but it’s bound to be a ‘he’, I’m just paying lipservice to 2024, like everyone else does)…He/she gulps, barely able to speak with nerves but finally …

“Knockers?”

The place probably erupted. There were other examples. The cardboard display for packets of peanuts in pubs, off-licenses and corner shops. Each bag bought and removed revealed another tantalising step closer to seeing a Page Three Stunna in all her glory; like a smutty round on Catchphrase.

Then there was, of course, the Pleasure Treasure. Found in skips and hedgerows across the land, the discarded Bongo Mags/Grumble Mags/Grot Mags, call them what you will. Finding one was jackpot. It never occurred to us how, well, gross it was. A porno mag already well-thumbed and probably well-everything-else. We thought not of this. Blinded by raging hormones, Razzle Dazzlers, we were cheap thrill-seekers in snorkel coats.

Back to the ceili. There we are, all rushing excitement and combed hair waiting for the exotic creatures from all four corners of the metropolis. Well, when I say all four, it was really two. East Belfast schools wouldn’t have set foot at our school back then due to The Troubles, the South Belfast schools were too posh to come. Even though we were a grammar school, we played GAA sport and basketball, they were rugger and hockey. So we had St Dominic’s from West Belfast and Fortwilliam and Little Flower schools from ‘up the road’. God love them. Walking into our school hall, the air thick with the scent of hamster cage, socks and Insignia. It’s all over now.

Then the excruciating awkwardness. Girls on one side, boys on the other. Which foolhardy soul would be first to cross the Rubicon and ask for a dance? It was never me. Jesus no, it was never me. But after a while we did get to dance with the girls, spinning and sidestepping and twirling like mad things, all the while our watchful guardians making sure we were leaving room for Jesus H Christ.

What with all the knockers on beer cans and wholesome country dancing, we had built up the upcoming Sex Education class to be a thing of myth. Apparently we were gonna be shown a Blue Movie!! It was gonna show everything an all!! It was kept in a locked drawer in the Dean of Discipline’s office!! (yes, we really did have a Dean of Discipline who was every bit as psychotic and questionable as the title sounds). We had built this up to be like the Holy Grail at the end of Raiders of The Lost Ark.

Come the day of the famed class, we were all revved up, chatting nineteen to the dozen and incredulous. The day was finally here!! The TV was wheeled in, Father Lonegan looked a little uneasy, uncomfortable, a little embarrassed already. Sid James cackles in my head. We took this as a sign that we were in for some hot stuff.

Lonegan silenced us. The screen on the TV was fuzzy white noise. Waiting for him to press play after the no doubt titillating intro. He cleared his throat.

“Fellas…..” pause for dramatic effect. Our eyes darted between each other. Get on with it!!

“Fellas..” he repeated in his broad Shligo lisping accent “Boys… are gas cookers….Girls… are electric cookers.”

He let it hang in the air, like the wisdom of Solomon (see, I picked a few things up!!)

That’s all he said. Looking back, I guess his point was that boys heat up fast and girls take a while longer. Barry White he was not. It’s not an inaccurate analogy I suppose but literally that was it. Then he pressed ‘Play’.

Jesus..the horror…..the….horror…He proceeded to show us the most graphic, gynaecological explanation/illustration of how babies are made. Not the shimmering bodies entwined in carnal desire we had hoped for, but an internal camera following the ‘little swimmer’s’ journey as they raced to be the first to reach Everest’s summit, AKA the fallopian tubes. It was gooier than we expected…squelchier.....more..graphic…more ‘real’ than we were expecting. I swear some of the things I saw that day had fangs. It was absolutely brutal. And not even anything resembling a wah-wah pedal to be heard.

But at least I was at the back of the row. Poor Pete McCool down front and centre, trapped like Alex DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange witnessing the full horror unblinkingly. Until he fainted. No one can really blame him, then or now. The poor guy was expecting something vastly different to this. He hit the deck hard and the video was stopped and we never got a chance to watch the rest of it. Maybe there was more to the cooker analogy. Maybe he employed other white goods further down the line to explain the great circle of life and glorious creation and the subtle art of seduction in between. We shall never know. But I’m sure more than one of us feels a wee tingle in their unmentionables when walking through the kitchen department of Ikea.

Right goers, them Scandinavians.

*Disclaimer. St Malachy’s is a very different school now. I know people who teach there and sons of friends who attend there. Yes, it went on for decades but it no longer does. And I’m assured their sex education classes are WAY better.*