Moss Side Stories

1.

York, Summer 2006

The kids stood on the roadside; Italians to depart, French to say goodbye. After 10 minutes of this, they progressed to the hugging and last minute exchange of emails. A mere ten minutes later they were told for the final time that this final time was really the final final time and if they didn't get on the coach they would have to walk back to Rome.

They wailed, they gnashed teeth, they got on the bus. As a final symbolic act, the most uncool Italian kid, the geeky twelve year-old with the bottlebottom specs, the one voted 'Most Likely to Be Bullied Forever', the only kid in the entire school uncool enough to actually want to learn English, wept bitter tears into the arms of the genetically cool 17-year old French heartbreakers, and their hugs were not sarcastic or forced, they were, to my astonishment, genuine and full of affection.

I stared ahead with my eyelids half closed. "Time for class," I said.


2.

North Manchester, January 2007

"Andrew, it's Emma's leaving party this Friday. We'll go have some drinks, maybe some food. Are you coming?"
I stared ahead with my eyelids half open. "I'll go," I said.


3.

York

The worst lesson I ever taught. The remainder of the group were French, all with tears in their eyes, wounds fresh and raw. The Italians had gone. Their friends had gone. Their reasons for living had gone. Nothing could console them. I stared out the window.
One French boy, a good kid in a group of good kids, his eyes red and his lips awobble, asked me if I wanted him to do any work. I showed him my journal, full of seemingly random words and dates and little pictures. A bed, a car, a matchstick Zidane. I gently explained how each picture reminded me of something that had happened. I began telling the stories behind each picture, and slowly more of the class listened to me, until they all together heard the story of the Big Hangover, the mystery of Junction 45, and why the word 'ashtray' reminds me of the World Cup final. I encouraged them to make their own diary, with cute little pictures, if they wanted. And if they wanted to cry instead, I wouldn't shout at them.

Then I stared out the window again.
"Teacher," said a boy. I turned to look at him. It was Éugénéménté, an intelligent, wilful, sensitive lad, who probably carried a note from his mother exempting him from playing rugby, but who probably played anyway and was quite good at it. "Teacher," he said, his eyes big with tears, "Don't you feel sad?"
His words overwhelmed me. He was saying, 'Andrew, you're not sad, you DICK. Why not? I know you should be sad. You've lost people you were close to, too. They were your friends who left. Is that what life does to you? Does it make you so sad you can never feel sad again?' And in that moment I felt as wretched as any time in my entire life, and tears filled the backs of my eyes. I realised if I cried then I would never stop.
"Éugénéménté," I said, "I have been to many countries and left many countries and met many people and left many people."

He looked at me and nodded, and he understood, and that was the only thing I ever taught him.


4.

Manchester City Centre, January 2007

I looked at my mobile. Nearly midnight, and I had to go to Trafford. "I have to leave now," I told one of the ladies.
"Stay a bit," she said.
"No because there are no lights in my house and I have to go to my auntie's house in Trafford."
"What's wrong with the lights in your house?"
"They exploded."
"So? You can find your bed."
I motioned my hand forward, up, and backward, miming the route from my front door to the bed. "It's far," I moaned. I turned and looked at Emma for the final time. A vicious voice in my head said, 'You're a writer; write something to say to her.' Emma looked at me. "I have to go now, Emma." And having said that, I left.


5.

Town Centre

There were no buses to Trafford, so I took the 42 toward my house in Moss Side. The bus was half-full of people who had left parties early. I looked out the window.


6.

House

I felt my way into the bedroom and found a bag of fireplace candles. I lit one to
see the way, then blew it out in case it burned my house down during the night. My face was expressionless. I can't prove it, because I was alone and my lights had exploded. But if
there had been any lights, and if there had been someone watching my face for whatever reason, they wouldn't have seen an expression.

I got into bed and stared ahead with my eyelids half closed. 'Andrew', said a voice, 'aren't you sad?'
.

Andrew Saves the Day

1pm

"Andrew, can you come to the shop? We're knocking down these walls and need your help. The guy with the grab-truck is coming at 2 and we won't get finished in time. If we don't get it done in time he'll leave."
"No problem, Steve, you've seen me at work, you know I'm a grafter. I'll be knocking walls down like there's no tomorrow."


1.50pm

"Steve, panic over, I'm here. Do you want me to shovel those bricks into the wheelbarrow?"
"Hahaha, don't be silly, lad. I wouldn't ask you to do hard work. That would be crazy. Look, the guy with the grabber is here. I need you to do him a coffee and keep him chatting while we get this wall finished. Go and talk crap to him for about ten minutes."
"You brought me here to stop the guy doing his job?"
"That's what you're good at."


2pm

"Heya mate. I've done you a coffee."
"Oh, lovely!"
"So what do you think about the pedestrianisation of Norwich City Centre?"
.

Van Morrison

John gave me his Van Morrison ticket and a quick lesson in what to expect:

“He’s promoting his country album so there won’t be any trumpet or sax, and he won’t play his classics. But if he’s in the mood it’ll be a great show.”

“What if he’s not in the mood?”

“If he’s not in the mood, or he doesn’t feel the audience are into it… he might walk off. Or turn his back on the audience and sing like that.”

“Cool!”

“But he hasn’t done that for years. Here’s some things to watch out for. He’ll give a little nod or just look at someone in the band and they’ll go off on a solo, or you’ll see him pump his fist and they’ll play faster. He’s so talented he can hear all the instruments, so if he hears a mistake he’ll give them a dirty look. Then sometimes he’ll pick up on the mood of the audience, and he’ll bring the band down really really quiet… and keep it there… and just at the right moment… up! They’ll go loud again. His timing is really perfect. But you won’t get that tonight – it’ll just be some country stuff. About 50% of it is good.”

The show was, simply, 100% good. Or a word that means better than good. Superb, perhaps.

My seat was about five metres directly in front of Van Morrison. He treated me to the full range of tricks – little nods, hand signals, playing really quietly, everything John had told me about! And, if I weren’t spoiled enough, he sang Brown Eyed Girl, Gloria, Days Like This, and my favourite, Moondance.

Mr. Van Morrison, ladies and gentlemen!

Fight Club

I joined an underground boxing club. I've never even thrown a punch before, but my dastardly cousin Steve decided to skip basic training so that he could punch me in the face. The comic is 100% true and factual. Only the mustaches have been changed.

Click on the left to see a bigger version, then zoom in to read the words easier (zoom by clicking on it again). My thanks to Rick for drawing it.

Speaking Chinese in England

Ordering Chinese Food

I overheard my mother and brother talking about getting some Chinese food. I went in to the living room; they were perusing the menu. 'Please can I have some hot and sour soup?' I asked. 'Do you have any money?' asked my mother. 'I have two pounds thirty pence.' 'It's not enough,' she said. 'If you want food you shall have to perform like an abused Thai Elephant,' said my brother, his face twisted, his smile malicious. 'Whatever do you mean?' 'I will buy you some food if you embarrass yourself by speaking Chinese on the phone.' 'I lack the Chinese for such a task.' 'You shall talk, or you shall starve,' he said, and he ran his finger along his neck.

He dialled and handed me the phone. My mother said, 'When you call she will say 'number 7?' – You won't even need to give the address. It's so funny.'

'Hello, Peking House.'
'Can I order a delivery?'
'Yes.'
A long pause.
'Do you want the address?' I asked.
'Yes.'
'7 Roman Road,’ I said, ‘Do you know it?'
'Yes.'
'So I want sweet and sour chicken. But no pineapple!'
'No pineapple?'
It was time to speak Chinese. 'Meiyou Pineapple,' I said.
'Okay. No pineapple.'
'And lemon chicken, and beef with peppers. And rice.'
'Okay fifteen minutes.'
I took a breath and pretended I was in Shanghai. 'Duoshao qian?'
'I'm sorry?'
'How much is it? Duoshao qian?' I was saying it perfectly.
'What language are you speaking?'
'It's called.... Chinese...'
A pause.
'Say it again.'
'Duoshao qian?''Oh! Duoshao qian? Fourteen pounds.'
'Your Chinese is bad,' I told her, in Chinese.
'No, your Chinese is bad.'
'You're a bad egg,' I said. I'm allowed to insult Chinese people because I'm cute.
'I'm not a bad egg, you're a bad egg.'
'I'm not a bad egg, I'm a good egg.' This is the funniest thing you can say to a Chinese person and so hysterical that the phone call ended.

'I am pleased that you lost face', said my brother. 'You will eat tonight. But next time, ask her if she has a boyfriend.'

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